


War Scars

by gaelicspirit



Category: The Musketeers
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Memories, Original Characters - Freeform, Scars, War, married d'artagnan and constance, war is hell on so many levels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 06:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 67,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaelicspirit/pseuds/gaelicspirit
Summary: Set at the start of S3, flashing back across 4 years of war between S2 and S3.Our stories are told in our scars, both seen and unseen. When the men return from the front, it’s quickly clear Paris isn’t the only thing that’s changed. Constance gathers the stories of their years at war like pages in a book, seeking a glimpse of pictures only those present could truly see.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. **Caution for images of war and all that comes with it.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Author’s Note:** As this story is complete, I’m posting all chapters at once. I do apologize if this complicates your email inbox (as I have been scolded about before), but I wanted to offer you the story in its entirety rather than stretch out the wait.
> 
> If you haven’t yet seen S3, I’ll only be spoiling a bit at the start; I’m not delving past the second episode. That said, I am taking some artistic liberty with the timeline as they got on with things in Paris a bit too quickly for my liking. So, I’ll ask your indulgence as I pad their calendar and add time between their return and the Next Big Thing that requires a Musketeer’s attention. It was just a bit hard for me to grasp the four of them returning to their lives as Musketeers as though four years of war and separation had been no big deal. It’s not quite AU, but it does stretch canon plotlines a smidge.
> 
> One more thing…scars. This story is _all_ about scars (mostly d’Artagnan’s). If that bothers you, I wanted you to know up front. My husband has a rather impressive collection of scars because of the blows life has dealt him and I have said more than once I love each one because they are the reason I still have him. They tell his story. I’m attempting to tell the story of what transpired through four years of war based off of the discovery of scars—both physical and emotional. Oh also, **Aramis** is _very much_ a part of this story, regardless of where he spent those four years. That’s the beauty of fiction. We can bend it to our will.
> 
> I hope you’re entertained.

“There are things worse than war: cowardice, betrayal, selfishness.”  
\-- Earnest Hemingway

**

**Chapter 1: Prologue**

“Did you miss me?”

d’Artagnan was standing in her room— _their_ room. Four years, nothing but letters—few, far between, and lacking any true news from the front, but his words, none-the-less—and now here he stood. Half-naked, water glistening on his bare chest and dripping from his freshly-shaved chin, lips tipped up in a confident smile cheekily asking if she’d missed him.

Constance had half a mind to toss his pauldron at him and storm out. No word, no warning, no way of knowing to anticipate him. That her long vigil of loneliness and worry was coming to an end. Simply absent from her life one moment and present the next, all sinew and smiles and scars.

She stared at him, taking in the sense of power that shadowed the lean muscle and raw energy that had always comprised the man before her. His dark eyes, a shade just before black, met hers unflinchingly, but she saw something skitter and shake in their expression—seeking reassurance.

He sucked in a shallow breath and though he didn’t move a muscle, she felt him pull away from her, retreating behind a wall she hadn’t realized was there two heartbeats earlier. It was that unconscious attempt at protection, that uncertainty of his place in her world, that drew her forward, the shock of his arrival dimming in light of the reality of _him_ —his skin, his breath, his strength.

 _God_ how she’d missed him.

His mouth was on hers before she could answer him. He tasted the same; he smelled the same. It was enough to weaken her knees, but she needn’t have worried about falling. He lifted her easily and in one motion kicked the door behind her closed, the latch falling neatly in place across the catch, and lay her gently beneath him on her— _their_ , she reminded herself—bed.

“Charles,” she breathed, and his lips tripped up in a small, surprised smile.

She’d been practicing his name—his true name, not the one she now shared with him—in the quiet of the night when the loneliness was at its peak. When she worried that the three days as husband and wife they’d been gifted before he’d left for the front were all the peace she’d ever know in her lifetime. When she’d imagine his hands on her, tracing their invisible path along her skin, her need a physical ache that only he could soothe.

His hands weren’t imaginary now, however. Dexterous fingers made quick work of the leather corset and brais. Constance helped by shifting her hips just so, allowing the layers of skirt and petticoats to slip down to where d’Artagnan could easily push them away. Her eyes closed in an instant, biological reaction to his touch, but she forced them open. She wanted to see him—to watch him see her.

“You are so beautiful,” d’Artagnan whispered. “You are exactly as I remembered you.”

“It’s only been four years,” she smiled indulgently. “Can a person change so much in such time?”

His dark eyes slid across her face with such a level of raw emotion captured there she felt as though he’d touched her. Her breath caught and she reached for his cheek, surprised when he pulled slightly away. He was positioned above her, body planked so that he held himself carefully apart, not one piece of his skin touching hers. The look on his face was open and desperate and Constance felt every cell in her body reach for him.

“Constance….”

She’d heard him say her name many times, but not like this. Not with this hitch and break and thread of desire slipping through it. Good Lord, but it made her blood heat as though he’d kissed her the way he used to, the way he’d done the very first time she’d met him.

Ignoring his tension, the tight muscles along his torso keeping him safely away from her, Constance reached up and grasped the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his long, dark hair, tugging him toward her until she captured his mouth with her own, feeling again the shape of his lips on hers. Her touch seemed to melt him and he folded forward, pressing skin to skin until Constance gasped from the contact.

Not ready for the yawn of years between them to build hesitancy in him once more, she curled a leg around his waist and pressed upwards until he had no choice but to tip to his side and allow her to turn them over. Once upright and straddling him, Constance stared down at his face, her hair spilling down her back and over her bare shoulders where his initial embrace had loosened it from her careful pins.

“Yes, I’ve missed you,” she finally supplied. Keeping his hands captured against their—yes _, their_ —pillows, she leaned forward and traced the curve his cheek with kisses. “I’ve missed your face,” she continued down his throat, feeling him swallow, “I’ve missed your voice,” she carried her caress over one shoulder, skimming the knotted scar there with her lips and drawing a surprised hiss from d’Artagnan, “I’ve missed your hands.”

“What you do to me, woman,” d’Artagnan fairly growled and Constance felt a pleasant shiver course down her spine and settle in her belly.

It reminded her of their first time together—desperate and clumsy at first, asking with glances, with touches, if this felt good, if that was permissible. At first, Constance took charge, offering her reassurance that he was welcome—everywhere—and wanted. But the moment d’Artagnan drew her close and rolled them over, she felt something inside of her uncoil. A release of the responsibility she’d been carrying since he left.

He’d grown stronger in their years apart.

His hands were rough in different places—not just from a sword hilt or horse reins, but from weapons she couldn’t begin to imagine in this moment. His body had changed—the long lines of lean muscle had tapered and collected in strength in his arms and shoulders she hadn’t felt before. Her hands trembled as they brushed across scars his body hadn’t born when he left her—a thin, white line wrapping around his ribs from back to front, the raised knot of pink flesh at his shoulder, a seam around his left eye.

Afterwards, Constance got up from their bed and, without grabbing a dressing gown, walked boldly bare across the room to the pitcher of water next to the wash basin. Pouring a bit into a mug, she returned to the bed, pausing for a moment to take in the sight of a man— _her_ man—in a bed that had for so long only been occupied by one person. d’Artagnan lay on his back, the sheet covering him to his waist, one leg free and resting at an angle across the white linen. She could see another scar on his thigh that looked to be as long as her hand.

His arm slid up from where he’d canted it across his eyes and he peered at her, something close to sorrow finding itself a home on his face.

“What is it?” she asked, surprised when her voice held no more weight than a whisper.

“We’ve missed so much,” he replied, the familiar husky timbre causing gooseflesh to raise on her bare skin. “The world seems pitted against our happiness.”

Constance felt her lips draw together in a patient smile; reactions so carefully shielded from the cadets were lost to the freedom of having d’Artagnan back with her once more.

“I don’t think that’s so,” she argued, sitting next to him and curling her legs up so that her knees rested against his side. “You came home to me; that says the world wants us together.”

His sad smile as he took the mug from her set a block of ice in her belly.

“d’Artagnan,” she said, calling his attention with the edge to her voice. “Who _didn’t_ come home?”

Eyes darting to the side, d’Artagnan pushed himself upright in the bed. He rested his shoulders against the headboard, oblivious of the sheet sliding down to his knees with his movement. Constance spared a thought to modesty, to feeling slightly shy about their nakedness after so many years apart, but dismissed it as she took in the lines around his eyes, aging him in moments.

“Tell me,” she practically ordered, sitting up on folded knees, her hand resting on his ribcage. “Was it Athos—“

“Athos is fine,” d’Artagnan reassured her with a brief shake of her head. “Athos was heroic. A true Captain. He and Porthos both kept me alive.” He glanced at her, the momentary light in his eyes causing her heart to speed up. “We even brought Aramis back with us.”

“Aramis!” She exclaimed. “But…what—how—“

Pulling his knees in, d’Artagnan shifted his weight in the bed, dropping the empty mug to the floor and scooping her up against him. “There will be time for all that later,” he said, cradling her in a steady grip, his hand cupping the side of her face as his thumb slid softly across her lips. “Right now, I just want to be with you. Be _myself_ with you.”

Constance frowned, reaching up to pull at his longer hair, her eyes searching his for a glimpse behind the shadows she saw lurking there.

“d’Artagnan,” she murmured.

“Charles,” he corrected. “I liked hearing you say my name…,” his chin quivered briefly and she slid her hand to his jaw, “I—I haven’t heard it…in a long time.”

For a moment, he seemed to turn to glass before her eyes and Constance realized she was quite possibly one of the only people in world who could see through his bravado to the man inside.

“Welcome home, Charles,” she smiled, then drew him down for a long, slow kiss that set her lungs on fire.

He was aggressive this time—not enough to bruise, but certainly enough to let her know he was after something specific. And he did not stop until he found it, turning her body into liquid gold, her mind suddenly awake as though the last four years had been a foggy dream. She’d forgotten what he could draw from her, what she could give him in return, and how utterly sated she found herself at the end.

He slept then, sprawled on his back, legs tangled in the sheets, arms tangled around her. Though it was now dark, Constance found herself wide awake, energized. They’d been married four years and this was only her fifth night lying next to her husband. By all accounts they were an old married couple; if God were to grant it—as He had not with Boniceaux—they could easily have a child or two by now if the war had not intervened.

After lighting a candle next to their bed, Constance lay curled on her side, watching her husband sleep. Exhaustion was clear in the lines that drew his face down in a frown, in the shadows that brushed like smoke and ash beneath his closed eyes. She gently traced the scar around his eye, then brushed her fingertips along the knotted tissue at his shoulder. His letters hadn’t spoken of wounds such as this. He’d barely mentioned loss or hurt; it was more the monotony of a soldier’s life broken by the rush of battle he conveyed to her. That and how much he loved and missed her.

Running her fingers down the length of his arm and skipping over to his ribs and the long, pale scar there she thought of how she drank in his words, keeping every letter as though by reading them he’d return to her and break the tedium of worry and burden of responsibility of the garrison. She’d shouldered her new role gratefully, eager to step in as caretaker of the cadets and keeper of that garrison when Treville had been appointed Minister. With Feron as Governor, someone needed to keep the place in order so that there was something for their men to return to…and without d’Artagnan at home, constantly getting himself into and out of trouble, Constance had very little to occupy her time.

Exhaling slowly, allowing herself the luxury of relaxing against her husband’s warm body, Constance rested her head on d’Artagnan’s unscarred shoulder and drifted. Sleep was reluctant to claim her, but she didn’t mind; it was enough to be close to him again. And it was only because she lingered in the space between waking and sleeping that his distress caught her attention.

It was so subtle—a shift in his breathing, the bend of his lips, the hand at her back twitching slightly—that she almost wrote it off to his typical restless sleep. The man was never still, this she remembered vividly. But as she pushed herself upright to her shoulder, she saw the sheen of sweat on his brow and felt a tremor course through him like a wave.

“Charles,” she whispered, gently, a hand at his side.

She watched the dream dig deeper, sinking talons into his consciousness and dragging him low, away from her voice, her touch. He shifted, his head turning on the pillow as if in denial. He was whispering something now, words too rapid and garbled for her to discern.

“Charles,” she said, louder this time. “Wake up.”

It almost physically hurt to watch him struggle. The tortured sounds that built at the back of his throat were captured by his tightly-pressed lips and the result hit the air like a plea. Constance sat upright, took his face in the palms of her hands and turned him toward her.

“d’Artagnan!”

At the sound of his name— _their_ name—his eyes flew open. He pulled in a lungful of air, darting a frantic look past her shoulder toward the door. She quickly released his face, pulling her arms toward her in almost instinctive protection as she saw him reach to his side—no doubt for his sword—and swing his legs free of the sheets. He was out of bed and backing toward the corner of the room, eyes still on the door, before she had a chance to exhale.

“d’Artagnan,” she said again, gentler this time, reaching a hand out toward him. “It’s me. You’re home with me.”

His dark eyes shot around the dimly lit room once more, his body completely taut, hand poised at his bare hip. Constance cautiously shifted on the bed, drawing his frantic gaze to her with her motion. She smiled at him, moving slowly, her hand still extended toward him.

“It’s me,” she said again.

“Constance,” he breathed.

“That’s right,” she nodded, smiling, her eyes burning with unshed tears of confusion and concern. “You’re _home_.”

At that word, he seemed to come back to himself, straightening slightly and shoving an impatient hand through his tangle of hair. It visibly dawned on him that he’d managed to back himself into a corner and he closed his eyes, color flooding what had previously been an unnaturally pale face.

“Oh, damn,” he muttered, pressing his back to the wall and sliding down until his backside hit the rough-hewn floor. He covered his face with trembling hands. “I’m so sorry, Constance.” His voice echoed dully from behind his hands.

Frowning slightly, Constance climbed from the bed and pulled the sheet with her, the movement fluttering the candle flame. She sat next to him on the floor, flourishing the sheet out to cover both of them, and pressed close to his warmth. She could feel fine tremors shuddering through him, not unlike the aftermath of their love making. Her belly tightened with worry, unaccustomed to seeing this man afraid. Not like this.

“Tell me,” she said quietly.

“It was just a dream,” he confessed, dropping his hands to rest his arms on his tented legs. “Just…forgot for a moment.”

“It’s understandable,” Constance nodded against his shoulder. “You were away for a long time. Saw…a great many things, I’d imagine.”

She heard him swallow.

“What haven’t you told me, d’Artagnan?”

He looked over at her, surprised. “What do you mean?”

She put a hand on his arm to show she wasn’t accusing, merely asking. “Your letters were so…limited. You never told me when you were wounded, who you lost, how you survived.”

d’Artagnan shook his head, reaching up to brush a curl behind her ear. “You didn’t need to hear that, Constance. I didn’t want you to…to have that ugliness in your mind.”

Feeling a surge of fire twist in side her, Constance turned so that she could face him yet still keep them covered. “You’re wrong. I _do_ need to know. Especially now.”

“Consta—“

“No.” She stared at him, willing him to see her determination through the flicker of candle flame. “I am your wife, Charles d’Artagnan. Your _wife_.” She stared at him, her lips twitching with a need to let loose a torrent of words. “I poured my heart into my letters to you. Sharing with you the story of responsibilities here I gladly accepted. I kept your men and your garrison fed and clothed and safe—as much as possible for a women—for all the years you were away fighting and I could do _nothing_ for you but pray. Pray and hope and watch for any sign of your fate in every letter that reached me from the front.”

“I’m sor—“

“I don’t want your apologies,” Constance said on a hiss, gripping his forearm with both hands and shaking the appendage slightly in her fervor. “I don’t want your remorse. I want _you_. I want all of you, everything. The pain and nightmares, too. You owe me that much.”

He suddenly looked achingly young, staring back at her. She saw even in the dim light of the candle that he believed her, that he trusted her words were true. As she continued to watch him she saw a kind of latent pain linger in his gaze as though his soul was resigned to feel it forever. It changed him in an instant from the hot-headed, brash youth who had ridden away from her into a man she realized she didn’t fully know.

“Help me, d’Artagnan,” she pleaded, her eyes burning with her own sense of loss and loneliness. She leaned forward, resting her chin on his forearm, his breath brushing her forehead with his exhale. “Help me know who you are now.”

He went still beneath her hands, then gently pulled away, pushing to his feet, the sheet dropping to the floor to pool around her as he crossed the room. He stood with his back to her, hands resting on his narrow hips. The shadows that danced from the candlelight dusted the planes of bare skin and muscle and Constance curled up, arms clasped about her legs.

He was silent for some time, the room breathing around them.

“What if you don’t like what you hear…,” he finally asked, his whole being held still as he waited for her answer. “What if you don’t like…who I’ve become?”

Constance took a breath, exhaling slowly. It was a very real fear, she knew. Time, distance—they both changed people. Add war to that…loss and longing and a need for redemption, and the man standing with his back to her now could very well be a stranger.

As she watched, however, d’Artagnan reached up a hand and rubbed at the back of his neck in a nervous gesture that was familiar and honest and every bit the man she’d fallen in love with all those years ago.

She pushed to her feet, the sheet wrapped around her and trailing behind as she crossed the room. Positioning herself in front of him, she reached up, cupping his face in her hand, her thumb resting just beneath the scar on his eye.

“Believe this,” she said with as much strength as the moment allowed. “I _love_ you. There is nothing in this world, no word or deed or loss that could change that fact.” d’Artagnan shifted so that their bodies drew closer, tipping his head down until their foreheads touched. “I’ll love you until I die, Charles d’Artagnan.”

She could feel the tremble in his limbs as he wrapped his arms around her, bringing his mouth to hers, and drinking in her kiss as though it would heal all the broken places inside of him. When they separated, she grabbed his hand, dragging him back to the bed. Settling against him once more, both covered again by the sheet, she rested her hand on her chest.

“I don’t know where to begin,” d’Artagnan confessed. “So much… _so much_ happened since I saw you. And I honestly…I don’t know if I _want_ to remember it all.”

“Start at the beginning,” she suggested. “What happened when you reached your first outpost?”

d’Artagnan was quiet a moment and she let him think, noticing this difference in him as well. He’d always been so quick to act, blindly following his gut where it led him and depending on his uncanny luck—and Athos’ watchful eye—to keep him safe. Watching him pause to think, even about a memory, or a selection of words, was a difference she would have to get used to.

“It was hard at first,” d’Artagnan began, “especially for Porthos. He was…he was a bit of a handful, you might say. For Athos, I mean.”

Constance nodded. “Because of Aramis.”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan agreed. “We all felt his loss, but Porthos…he was angry. It was…it was the kind of anger that had nowhere to go.”

He rolled his neck as though the memory was a hand at his throat. Taking a slow, deep breath, he rested his shoulders against the headboard, dropping his head back and staring into the middle distance. Constance was careful not to move, sensing a fragile stillness inside him, as though once shattered it would never be whole again.

“He quiet for a long time, and Porthos…he just isn’t _quiet_. You know.” He didn’t wait for her to agree. “He walked around with bowed shoulders, as though…well, like gravity had a different effect on him. It pulled on him stronger in his grief.”

d’Artagnan quieted for a moment and Constance reflected on his words, thinking about how inseparable Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had been for so many years—long before d’Artagnan had ever crashed into their lives with his fight and fire. To have one of them gone—especially by choice—had to have been a crushing blow, breaking the balance they’d all depended upon to keep them safe and sane.

Without seeming to realize what he was doing, d’Artagnan reached up to his shoulder, rubbing at the knotted flesh that marked a spot just beneath his clavicle.

“Tell me about that one,” she implored, watching him.

He startled slightly and dropped his hand, blushing again.

“Tell me how you got that scar, d’Artagnan,” she repeated. “I want to know.”

He looked down at her and his expression darkened with the shadows of the room. “You may not like what you hear,” he reminded her. “And…I couldn’t bear it if you…if you walked away.”

Constance pushed up to her knees and leaned across him to kiss his scarred shoulder, then his neck, then his lips. Her mouth inches from his, she whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

d’Artagnan licked his lips, swallowing hard, then nodded.

Constance sat back, wrapping her arms around her legs and watched as his eyes drifted away, his words falling from lips that seemed to forget they were even moving.

“It was the first real skirmish after we’d reached the front. Athos was riding among the men, every inch the Captain. I was…well, in a word, I was terrified. And then there was Porthos. He moved through the camp like he’d given up listening to the better angels of his nature and the devil on his shoulder was his very best friend….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** The chapters will alternate between present-day, like this one, and war-time memories, each from a different Musketeer. If you choose to indulge me by reading, I hope you enjoy.


	2. Friendly Fire (d'Artagnan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. Caution for images of war and all that comes with it.

“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”   
– G.K. Chesteron

**

**Chapter 2: Friendly Fire (d’Artagnan)**

It was nothing like he imagined.

Though, honestly, he’d never truly imagined _war_. Fighting beside his brothers, yes. Defending his King, behaving honorably in the face of injustice, absolutely. But _war_ …war was a different animal.

A vicious, bloody creature that stalked with monotonous precision and attacked with disregard to humanity.

They’d ridden away from Douai and Aramis with heavy hearts. Their friend was not to be persuaded from what he felt was his calling, no matter how fervent their pleas, how clear their need of his presence. Aramis had simply looked at them, his dark eyes soft and sad, declaring, “Atonement is a long and lonely road.”

Porthos had shoved his hat on his head, wheeling his horse away from the monastery and taken to the road at a gallop. Athos had simply regarded Aramis with something more than sorrow but not quite regret lingering in his blue eyes. Leaning down from his saddle, he clasped Aramis’ hand and held fast for one moment.

“Your only sin, my friend,” Athos said, his cultured tones slipping around the silence of the courtyard like an embrace, “is thinking yourself so unworthy as to require such absolution.”

With that he, too, had left, taking off after Porthos and trusting d’Artagnan to follow.

“I don’t want to leave,” d’Artagnan confessed, pressing his lips closed to stay the rush of emotion that wanted to erupt at the thought of riding away from this place without Aramis. “Not without you.”

“I belong here, d’Artagnan,” Aramis replied.

“You belong with us,” d’Artagnan countered. “You’ll never convince me otherwise.”

Aramis shifted slightly, the incongruous monk’s robes adding to the surreal quality of the moment. “Go,” he patted the neck of d’Artagnan’s mount. “Go after Athos. Stay close to him. Watch his back. He needs you, d’Artagnan. No matter what he may say to the contrary.” He looked up, meeting d’Artagnan’s dark eyes with his own. “You bring him balance.”

“I could say the same of you,” d’Artagnan argued once more, unwilling to let it go. Let _Aramis_ go. “You know Porthos will be lost without you.”

At that, Aramis smiled. “Porthos is the strongest of us all,” he said softly. “He will be magnificent, you’ll see.” He patted d’Artagnan’s horse once more. “Go. I’ll be praying for your safe return.”

d’Artagnan shook his head, wanting to find the words—the perfect argument that would finally tip Aramis’ decision in their favor—but the marksman turned away, walking stalwartly toward the heavy wooden doors of the monastery, his shoulders squared, his head level. There wasn’t even one stumble of regret in his stride. d’Artagnan had no choice but to turn his horse down the road after his two friends, leaving Aramis in God’s hands.

Athos hadn’t wanted to linger in Paris. He’d given them each an hour to gather their things and say their goodbyes—which, for d’Artagnan was just this side of torture as he held Constance close, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling her curves beneath his hands, kissing her lips one last time—and then led he and Porthos as well as Bauer, Mathieu, DuFour, and Magliore from the garrison toward the front.

It was four day’s ride to the French Army’s camp. Porthos spent much of it in silence, growling a sharp retort whenever anyone dared mention Aramis’ name. Athos wasn’t much better; eyes on the middle distance, a glower in his expression, barely a word offered to any of the men. d’Artagnan took to riding with Bauer, seeking some kind of preparation for what to expect at the camp. Bauer had fought alongside Athos in several battles, and Magliore and DuFour were veterans of previous encounters with the Spanish before joining the Musketeers.

None of their stories of glory could have prepared d’Artagnan for the din and drudgery he’d encounter his first week at the front.

Athos, a Captain per papers provided by Treville, organized his men into a regiment, assigning Porthos and d’Artagnan to a tent near where the other four were encamped. Athos himself held quarters near the leaders of the company, an area adjacent to the Battalion General’s mobile headquarters.

d’Artagnan expected every day to be charging into battle on the backs of their steeds, swords drawn, voices raw from war cries.

Instead, he and Porthos spent days cleaning their gear, their horses having been surrendered to the use of the cavalry unit, and awaited orders. In the past, Porthos would have been garrulous, ingratiating his boisterous laugh and larger-than-life presences throughout the camp, befriending their comrades until there wasn’t a stranger among them. As it was, the man spent hours sharpening his schianova, darkness lurking in his expression warning away anyone—save Athos and d’Artagnan—who dared approach him.

For his part, d’Artagnan felt a strange insecurity, one he’d not truly experienced since joining the Musketeers. He shadowed Athos as much as the older man would allow, listening closely to conversations with other men about battle tactics and the strategy of war. Often, it sounded like they spoke of a game, not something that was truly about life and death. He wandered from his tent to Bauer and Mathieu’s, or DuFour and Magliore’s, but he hesitated venturing beyond the known to discover who else was encamped in the company.

Something warned him not to get too close to the men around him. The bold, hot-headedness his Musketeer brothers had always good-naturedly chided him for seemed to abandon him the moment they showed up at camp.

He spent his time watching. Listening. Waiting. An unnamed and unfamiliar anxiety dug in hooks and grew steadily worse.

He wrote to Constance, he wandered the ridge line above the camp, he scanned the horizon, looking beyond the acres of canvas tents to where the open land of France rolled green and peaceful, belying even the idea of a war upon her soil.

Sleep was a challenge that first week; later, however, he’d think back on this time with longing, remembering these brief moments of the war when sleep was a peaceful companion and not full of terror and disquiet. d’Artagnan often found himself awake before Porthos and climbed the ridge above the camp to watch the sun rise, burning off the grayish fog and turning the seemingly endless stretch of canvas into a pastoral watercolor.

One morning, as he climbed to his usual spot on the ridgeline, d’Artagnan quickly realized he had a companion. Night was on the cusp of releasing its hold on the world; as he watched, the sun stretched lazy arms at the edge of the horizon, turning the dew that clung to each blade of grass along the valley into diamonds. A hawk’s cry broke the stillness of dawn and d’Artagnan’s quick eyes found the bird, tracking it until it brushed the long grass to catch its prey in quick, lethal talons, wings scatting the dew like gems of light as it took once more to the sky and sought the safety of the trees.

The path of the hawk carried d’Artagnan’s gaze to his mentor standing next to him. Athos held himself carefully, eyes steady and sharp, his bearing the kind of stillness that went dangerously deep.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan greeted, his voice husky from a night of disuse.

Athos nodded his return greeting, his piercing gaze resting on the expanse of land beyond their camp. d’Artagnan waited his friend out, resting his weight on one hip, his palm dropping to the hilt of the sword he was never without.

“You need to be fitted for armor today,” Athos informed him. “I’ve allowed you leeway for too long.”

d’Artagnan glanced away. Porthos had found and refitted quite an impressive set of heavy armor for himself, covering his shoulders, chest, upper arms and thighs. d’Artagnan could barely lift the chest plate, let alone move freely with the ensemble fixed to his body. He’d avoided finding similar protection; it seemed unnecessary as they were simply wandering around the camp.

“Athos—“

“We have orders to engage the Spanish Army near La Hougue,” Athos interrupted whatever protest d’Artagnan was about to mount.

d’Artagnan felt his heart jump with excited anticipation. They’d been still too long; this is what he’d been waiting for—what he _needed_. Else he was going to go insane from inactivity. He grinned broadly, hooking his thumbs in his weapons belt and rocking back on his heels.

“However,” Athos continued, still looking outward over the shadows seeded across the tents from the rising sun. “You will not be among my men if you do not have armor to protect yourself.”

d’Artagnan scoffed. “As if you’d leave me behind.”

He playfully bounced Athos’ shoulder with his own, pulling up short when Athos turned abruptly to face him, his blue eyes narrowed and alight with something d’Artagnan hadn’t seen in them since the days when Milady De Winter toyed with his emotions like a cat with string.

“Listen to me very closely,” Athos said, his voice serious, his words grabbing d’Artagnan’s attention as surely as if the man had gripped his shoulders. “Your lack of self-preservation…that’s not bravery, d’Artagnan.”

d’Artagnan drew his chin up, puzzled whether he’d just been insulted or warned.

“You run toward danger without a thought to yourself.” Athos pressed his lips together for a minute, pulling in a breath through his nose before he continued. “You must keep your demons on a leash. I cannot allow you to die. Do you understand?”

d’Artagnan frowned. “Athos, I’m not going to—“

“You’ve not seen war, d’Artagnan,” Athos interrupted once more. “You’ve no concept of battle… _true_ battle. It is chaos and terror and…,” Athos shook his head, looking down. “Men die so quickly, it’s like…taking a breath. And they’re just…gone.”

He lifted his head to face d’Artagnan once more and the younger man caught his breath at the look in his mentor’s eyes. It was pain, harsh and clean and as effective as a whip’s lash.

“That will _not_ be you. Do you understand me?”

Unspoken words swam beneath the surface of Athos’ expression. For the briefest of moments, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but wonder about all the things Athos was busy _not_ saying. Whole paragraphs of feeling were held in the man’s eyes, waiting for an avenue to reach the surface, but before they could escape, Athos built a wall.

Swallowing any further comment, d’Artagnan nodded. Athos held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding once.

“Meet Porthos at my tent and get fitted for armor. We ride out in three hours.”

d’Artagnan watched Athos descend the hill, his thoughts ricocheting from Athos’ words, to the reality he was about to face, to the possibility of death, to the yearning to see Constance once last time, to the thrill of finally— _finally_ —seeing action, to the fear of letting anyone down. He took a breath, focusing his attention on Athos as he moved through the camp, shouting orders d’Artagnan was too far away to hear.

Like a ripple skimming across the still surface of a pond, men moved in response to Athos’ voice, most shifting and jerking in surprise or fear. d’Artagnan marveled at this effect for a moment. Where most saw coldness in Athos, d’Artagnan saw control. Where others saw judgment, d’Artagnan saw caution. d’Artagnan knew his friend was a master craftsman of internal architecture. It seemed to serve him well as Captain of this army, but d’Artagnan couldn’t help but wonder how alone the man must feel.

As d’Artagnan made his way to Athos’ tent to fulfill his orders, he caught sight of Porthos heading toward him, tying a dark blue scarf over his short curls, a frown seemingly etched into the swarthy man’s face like stone, his heavy armor already in place. Porthos paused before the opening to Athos’ tent, waiting for d’Artagnan, and the younger man found himself thinking that it wasn’t just Athos who seemed alone. Without Aramis—without the familiarity of the garrison and the duties of the Musketeers—they were all a bit solitary.

Porthos perhaps most of all.

“You ‘eard did you?”

“Finally getting some action,” d’Artagnan grinned.

Porthos lifted a brow in his direction. “This ain’t no battle with the Red Guard, y’know,” he glowered. “You ain’t seen fightin’ like this is liable to be.”

d’Artagnan shook his head, rifling through the odds and ends of armor left over from the blacksmith’s contribution to the effort. “Between you and Athos, you’d think I never lifted a sword in my life.”

“Just watching out for you is all.”

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes, huffing, “If Aramis were here, I doubt he’d be discouraging me _right_ before we headed into the fight.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

d’Artagnan realized it two beats after the words fell from his lips, just as Porthos’ fingers curled into a fist, d’Artagnan’s shirt caught between, his body shoved back against the wooden trough that held the metal armor. Porthos eyes were like twin coals, burning accusation into d’Artagnan’s skin.

“Naw, ‘e’d be too caught up in memories of Savoy to be worried ‘bout the likes of you,” Porthos growled. “That is what war does to you, lad. It scoops you out and turns you ‘ollow and makes you leave your brothers behind to face the fire on their own.” Porthos released d’Artagnan with an extra shove to punctuate his sentence. “You best remember that.”

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan shouted at his friend’s back as the big man turned toward the ranks of men lining up for the march. “You _know_ that’s not why he didn’t join us.”

“Know nothin’ of the kind,” Porthos shot back over his shoulder.

“Aramis is no coward!” d’Artagnan protested, fury turning his voice hard.

Porthos spun around—an impressively lithe maneuver considering the weighty bulk of his armor—and pointed a finger at d’Artagnan, his features masked by rage and, d’Artagnan now saw, hurt.

“’e _left_ us!” Porthos shouted. “’e knew exactly where we were ‘eaded and why and he _left_. If that’s not a coward, I don’t know what is.” He turned on his heel and headed toward the front line.

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan called once more, but was halted by a hand on his shoulder. He looked over in surprise at Bauer, the older man’s face lined, his blue eyes sad.

“Let him go,” Bauer advised.

d’Artagnan set his jaw, staring after Porthos. “I thought he was just in a bad mood, but as it’s been several weeks, I guess this is just how he is now.”

“He’ll come back around. You’ll see.”

d’Artagnan picked up and dropped a shoulder guard back into the pile of leftover armor. “Before or after he actually tears my head off?”

“Preferably before,” Bauer joked, eyeing the armor. “We need good soldiers in this war.”

d’Artagnan offered a reluctant grin. Bauer always had a way of reminding him that the world extended beyond Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

“Now tell me, young Gascon, why are we standing here staring at castoff armor as our regiment readies to charge valiantly into battle?”

“Athos won’t let me join without armor,” d’Artagnan muttered, petulant.

“How dare he want you to not be obliterated by a cannon ball?” Bauer shook his head. “And he calls himself your Captain.”

d’Artagnan shot the older man a look. “It’s…I can’t _move_ with it on.”

Bauer sighed. “Come on,” he began to rifle through the wooden trough. “We should be able to find something in this mess that will pass Athos’ inspection.”

In minutes, they had found shoulder guards and a chest plate that Bauer was able to strap onto d’Artagnan’s slim frame. It was awkward and heavy, but d’Artagnan was glad for it when Athos rode past the tent and glanced down with a nod of approval before moving toward the front of the line.

“Now, then,” Bauer said, clapping d’Artagnan on the back, his forearm guard clanking against d’Artagnan’s shoulder plate. “Let’s join Porthos at the front where we can look the enemy in the eye.”

d’Artagnan shifted under the weight of the armor, resting his hand on his sword hilt for reassurance. “We don’t even have a harquebus,” he pointed out.

“Quite right,” Bauer grinned. “We’ll have to find one along the way, it seems. Besides,” he began walking in the direction Athos had ridden, “we are men; it is our business to risk our lives.”

“I know a certain ginger who would vehemently disagree with that sentiment,” d’Artagnan muttered, following after his friend.

Bauer and d’Artagnan shouldered their way to the front of the troops, each flanking Porthos, who was staring straight ahead, a muscle jumping along his jawline. The excitement d’Artagnan had felt at Athos’ announcement began to give way to anxiety. He could hear the muted clank of armor as the men shifted their stance around and behind him. He could smell the dust from the horse’s hooves as Athos rode up and down the line of men, calling out instructions. He could feel sweat gather along his neckline and run unchecked down his spine.

“You men!” Athos shouted, his voice reverberating along the metal armor, the steel of the spear tips, the sharpened edge of the rapiers. “You are soldiers of France!”

d’Artagnan shot a glance from the empty field before him to the figure of his mentor and friend riding with unflinching grace and assured purpose along the front line of men. The set of Athos’ shoulders, the flint in his blue eyes, the determined lines around his mouth, the all spoke of one thing: strength.

d’Artagnan found himself swept up by the man’s words.

“Look to your left, your right,” Athos continued, wheeling his horse around to continue down the line of men. “Those men you see there – they are your brothers.”

d’Artagnan looked askance at Porthos and saw that he’d not moved. His eyes were on the middle distance, his entire body the wrong kind of still, filling d’Artagnan with worry far greater than any battle they were about to engage in.

“When you fight, you do not simply protect France, your home, your _country_ ,” Athos pulled his sword free and lifted it high, “you protect your _brother_!”

The men shouted back in agreement with Athos’ statement.

“And you _will_ protect him as you protect France,” Athos shouted. “Believe in the righteousness of our fight, gentlemen, and we will succeed. For there is nothing stronger than the heart of a soldier of France!”

d’Artagnan joined the wordless battle cry and pulled his sword in unison with Porthos and Bauer.

“Keep dirt from your weapons; keep your focus clear. I’ll see you on the battlefield, gentlemen!” Athos wheeled his horse around and led the regiment forward, the sound of the boots stomping down the earth in his wake.

d’Artagnan felt his breath picking up, his heart slamming hard against his ribs in an uneven mix of excitement and nervousness. He wanted to make Athos proud. He wanted to protect his brothers.

He did not want to fail.

He did not want to die.

The armor seemed to physically pull him down as they marched forward. He wanted to tug at the leather bindings Bauer had fastened at his side; he couldn’t draw an easy breath for the press of the metal across his chest. His mind skipped through a universe of memories.

The first time he saw Athos, Porthos, Aramis; the warmth of his father’s blood on his hands; kissing Constance in the market; the slam of Athos’ bullet across his ribs; the feel of Milady’s hands on his bare skin; the fear that Constance would be killed; the sense of belonging when he first wore his pauldron….

It was as if he couldn’t grab one thought, one anchor or memory to balance him, calm him. He wasn’t aware that his breath was skipping audibly until he felt a hand at his wrist, strong and steady. He glanced down and saw that Porthos holding his arm, stilling the embarrassing tremble, and reminding him that he wasn’t alone in a sea of soldiers.

He was next to his brother.

“All right, then, yeah?”

d’Artagnan’s mouth was suddenly bone-dry. “Yeah.”

“I, uh,” Porthos released his arm, but stayed in step, “might’ve lost my ‘ead for a bit there.”

d’Artagnan resisted the urge to comment that if by _a bit_ Porthos meant a few _weeks_ , he was inclined to agree.

“It’s okay,” d’Artagnan reassured him. “I got armor.”

Porthos spared him a glance as they began to climb a rather steep hill, bisecting the center of the clearing they’d been crossing. “’s too big for you,” he scoffed. “Looks like you’re wearing your father’s.”

“Feels too tight to be too big,” d’Artagnan grumbled, rolling his shoulder.

“Keep it on,” Porthos ordered, lowering his head and raising his sword as they neared the crest of the hill. “’f I can’t protect you, it will.”

“Is that right?” d’Artagnan retorted with a half-grin. “And who’s gonna be protecting you, huh?”

Just then, they reached the top of the hill and looked down into the valley below and d’Artagnan’s grin fell from his lips, bowing them with its escape. Before him, as though they’d simply been waiting for the French army to arrive, was a virtual sea of Spanish soldiers, cannons at the ready along each flank, archers in the center.

“Holy shit,” d’Artagnan breathed, finally understanding what Porthos meant when he said it wouldn’t be like going against the Red Guard in the streets of Paris. This was different from every single battle he’d ever waged in his young life.

And he was terrified.

“This is it, men,” Bauer murmured low enough only those nearest could hear him. “We do this for each other and for France.” He glanced askance at Porthos and d’Artagnan. “We don’t need praise or glory.”

Porthos rolled his shoulders in a metallic shrug. “Praise and glory are two of my favorite things.”

d’Artagnan felt himself smile then, despite his fear. He remembered the heroes and warriors in the books he’d read about under his father’s tutelage. He remembered the Roman soldiers. He remembered fantasizing about moments of bravery, cast in the fires of battle.

“With your shield or on it,” he said, his voice breathy with anticipation. He felt Porthos’ eyes on him and the big man nodded, echoing his words in a war cry.

“With your shield… _or on it_!” Porthos bellowed, and with that, they led the charge down the hill and into chaos.

The first cannon blast sent d’Artagnan skidding sideways in his run toward the Spanish army. He lost sight of Porthos and Bauer, focused only on the red uniforms approaching him. Arrows, lethal in their accuracy, rained down around him, missing him by inches, whistling through the air and finding targets of flesh and bone. On instinct alone, d’Artagnan blocked an enemy sword with his own, batting away the barrel of a pistol and rotating along the back of one Spaniard to engage with another in a clash of swords and fists.

Another blast from the Spanish cannon and d’Artagnan was thrown off his feet by the concussion. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, but then saw a sword descending toward him and brought his own up, blocking the blade. He rolled to his knees, grabbing the enemy soldier by the leathers of his uniform and used the other man’s momentum to throw him over his head to crash against another soldier.

On his feet once more, d’Artagnan charged forward in a staggered run when a blast went off to his right followed immediately by another at his left. This time, he didn’t even remember being blown backwards; he was simply lying on his back, coughing dirt from his lungs. His hands were empty, and he could hear shouting around him as though from afar.

His ears were ringing, his senses spinning. Rolling slowly to his side, he cringed when a Spanish soldier leapt over him, charging for one of the French soldiers behind him.

Coughing roughly, unable to pull in a full breath, d’Artagnan grabbed a spear from the hand of a fallen man, trying in vain to not look directly at the bloody mass that had once been a face, and charged forward once more. He searched the melee for Porthos, for Athos, for Bauer. He reacted to attack, blocking a sword with the wooded shaft of the spear, driving the point home into the chest of a red uniform, refusing to look at the face of the man he killed.

The rain of arrows tapered as he pressed forward, stepping on bodies, tripping over discarded weapons. The world continued its slow roll trying desperately, it seemed, to knock him from his feet, even as he ran on. If he could breathe, d’Artagnan reasoned, movement would be much easier.

But the armor seemed to collapse his ribcage against his lungs, weighing his shoulders until wielding even the stolen sword he’d grabbed on his second time up seemed impossible. Dragging the sword point in the dirt, d’Artagnan gasped, looking around through the smoke, trying to pick up a familiar voice through the din of pistol fire and screams of the dying.

How had he ended up alone in this melee? Where were their men?

Blinking smoke and dirt from his eyes, d’Artagnan could taste blood on his lips, uncertain which blow had instigated the wound. He could hear shouts and curses of those battling nearby, the crash of metal, the blast of muskets and pistols, but it was almost impossible to find them through the smoke.

Spinning at the sound of one cry, he saw a group of soldiers—cadets, really—who had smartly grouped themselves in a circle, backs to each other, protecting from all sides.

“You!” He called, drawing four sets of terrified eyes. “Come with me!”

With a nod, one stepped away, motioning toward the rest to follow d’Artagnan, apparently buoyed by the idea and comfort of leadership. d’Artagnan lifted his stolen sword and began to lead the small band of soldiers forward toward the continuing cacophony of battle when he heard one of them cry out. He turned to see one of the fallen Spanish soldiers sitting up, a spear shoved into the gut of the young French soldier.

d’Artagnan descended and killed the lurking Spaniard with a slide of his blade across the man’s throat, then turned to help the wounded the cadet, but saw that the light had left his eyes, his body propped upright by the spear, arms hanging limply at his sides. At this, the other three turned as one, heading back the way they came. d’Artagnan started to call for them, but stilled his voice. He couldn’t blame them, really. The only thing driving him forward at this point was his undeterred Gascon pride…and a desperate need to find his friends.

Just as he turned to shout for Porthos, he was confronted with the soot-covered, blood-smeared visage of a Spanish soldier no older than himself, wide eyes staring back at him in utter terror. In trembling unison, they each lifted their weapons ready to fight to the death when another cannon blast sent d’Artagnan off his feet.

He landed hard, the world going dark.

He crawled toward consciousness in stages, first aware of the low thrum of pain in his head, then of the hard earth beneath him, and finally of the pungent smell of blood and gunpowder and death that seemed to comprise the very air he breathed. He tried to pry his eyes open, the command lethargic from his aching brain.

The dissonance of battle slipped across his ears with nauseating repetition. On a barely-suppressed groan, d’Artagnan blinked against the smoke hanging thick around him and rolled stiffly to his side, releasing a tight breath, his lungs battered, his eyes gritty.

He tried to push himself upright, but his hand slid, sending him sprawling to his side once more. Confused, his thoughts sluggish, he blinked again at the earth beneath him…only then realizing that he hadn’t landed on the ground at all. He was sprawled atop the body of the young Spanish soldier, his hand pressed into what remained of the man’s chest cavity, slipping in the gore.

d’Artagnan jerked back, half-rolling, half-scrambling free of the body, starting in horror at the carnage that had painted his armor red. The man’s arms and legs were no longer attached to his torso and his eyes were wide and staring, a look of unimaginable terror his death mask.

d’Artagnan couldn’t breathe.

His armor was too tight, too heavy, too covered in blood.

He began to rip at the leather ties at his sides, not hearing the desperate gasps and sobs escaping between his lips as he worked the chest plate free. He stood then, wobbling on his feet, and began to pull off the shoulder guards, dropping one to the ground and hurling the other at the shadowed figure running toward him through the smoke.

“Bleedin’ Christ!” Porthos roared, ducking the metal guard and skidding to a halt in front of d’Artagnan. “Trying to take off my ‘ead, are you? ‘ad enough of that with this bloody cannon fire!”

d’Artagnan gaped at his friend, still unable to take a full breath. The world felt thin, fragile, as if it might break apart around him and slice him up with the shards. He gulped at the smokey air, unable to take enough in. Something on Porthos’ dirt-covered face registered d’Artagnan’s panic and he grabbed the younger man’s arms, bracing him.

“Breathe, d’Artagnan,” he ordered. “Just slow it down.”

“Porthos…I-I…he…I landed and he…I couldn’t…I didn’t know….”

Porthos glanced down, then back at d’Artagnan. “Easy, lad. Just take one slow breath. We’re getting the ‘ell outta ‘ere, you and me.”

“B-but…the battle…Athos—“

“Athos led the regiment south, to the tree line,” Porthos told him. “Sent me to round up the right flank and follow after. The bastards broke their lines. Split us up.”

It was only then that d’Artagnan realized the constant din of the fighting had waned in the time he’d been unconscious. He could still hear the cries of the wounded, the occasional shouts of single combat, the smattering of pistol fire. But not the deafening roar of before.

Porthos kept a tight grip on d’Artagnan’s arms, pulling the younger man with him, away from the collection of bodies around where d’Artagnan stood. “We can’t stay ‘ere, d’Artagnan. We—“

A blast in the distance jerked d’Artagnan’s attention from Porthos and suddenly there were four men garbed in the Spanish red charging them, swords drawn. Porthos released d’Artagnan and pulled his sword free, rushing forward and meeting the enemy with almost delighted fervor.

d’Artagnan reacted on instinct. He had no weapon, but he knew how to fight. He was far from helpless.

He crouched, catching one of the soldiers at the waist when the other man raised his sword to slice at him. The fool should have known better: close combat, go for the stab, not the slice.

d’Artagnan employed a trick he’d seen from Porthos many times, using his opponents’ momentum to knock them off balance. He twisted around, stepping behind the Spanish soldier, and faced the fourth in the group—who was apparently a better fighter than his companion, but no luckier. The sword buried itself in the gut of the Spaniard d’Artagnan was using as a shield and he dropped the body, grabbing the man’s sword. He attacked the remaining soldier, felling him with two precise wounds to the upper thigh and lower torso Athos had shown him that were sure to incapacitate an enemy.

Panting for breath, d’Artagnan looked through the clearing smoke to find Porthos standing with blood dripping from his schianova, two dead Spaniards at his feet. He looked up at d’Artagnan, his grin of victory turning into a troubled glower.

“What are you doin’ standin’ there with no armor?” Porthos growled.

d’Artagnan shook his head, pointing at his felled opponents. “You think I could have done this with all that armor on?”

“Don’t much matter, you get a spear in the gullet does it?” Porthos stalked toward him.

“I couldn’t _breathe_ with the damn stuff on!” d’Artagnan shouted at the other man. “Besides, I—“

Whatever argument he’d been about to provide Porthos was lost as something slammed into his shoulder with the force of a sledgehammer, knocking him off his feet for the fifth time that day.

“—gnan…c’mon, lad…n’t stay here….”

Awareness was the surface of the ocean and he was bobbing within it. He didn’t remember actually closing his eyes before he was opening them once more to stare up into Porthos’ anxious, soot-covered face. He felt the pressure of hands on him—his ribs, his shoulder—but his body felt oddly detached, as if it belonged to someone else and he was simply borrowing it for a bit.

Then the hands made him move. And his borrowed body exploded.

“Ahhh!” d’Artagnan bowed his back, instinctively moving away from Porthos’ grip. “Shit… _stop, Porthos_ …don’t—“

“We need to _move_ , lad!” Porthos growled, his teeth clenched as he ignored d’Artagnan’s pleas and hauled him into a seated position.

The world spun sickeningly around d’Artagnan and he could hear screaming. The only reason he knew it wasn’t him was that he was busy grabbing breath. Blinking he looked up, past Porthos’ shoulder and saw a young French soldier standing nearby, a musket held loosely in his trembling hands. He was younger than d’Artagnan, lanky and dirt-covered, with a shock of short, black hair and blood-shot blue eyes currently pinned on him.

“Can you walk?” Porthos was asking him, still tugging on his arm as d’Artagnan sat staring dazedly at the young French soldier.

“Walk?” he muttered, confused.

“We need to get to the tree line,” Porthos declared, gesturing with a tilt of his head over his shoulder. “The Spanish bastards are turning back.”

“What…what happened…I don’t—“

“This _dalcop_ ‘ere shot you, that’s what ‘appened,” Porthos snapped, pressing his shoulder into d’Artagnan’s chest. It took the younger man a moment to realize that his friend meant to carry him to safety.

“I didn’t mean to!” Protested the young soldier. “Thought you was with the Spanish!”

“They’re comin’ at you from the _other_ direction,” Porthos growled, stumbling back when d’Artagnan shoved at him.

“’ve got this,” d’Artagnan slurred, knowing he didn’t want to be carried, but unclear why his mouth wasn’t cooperating with him. “Help m’up.”

The screaming grew louder and d’Artagnan flinched when three more French soldiers ran past them, skidding to a stop just beyond the musket bearer. Porthos heaved d’Artagnan to his feet and drew an arm across his shoulders. Instinctively, d’Artagnan gripped the edge of Porthos’ armor, anchoring himself.

He followed Porthos’ anxious glance toward where they heard the screaming—which was now coalescing into actual words, though d’Artagnan couldn’t understand one of them. He wondered dimly if Aramis would have been able to. Through the lingering smoke that hung over the bodies strewn across the battlefield, he could see nearly a full regiment of Spanish heading in their direction. It didn’t appear that the battered group of French soldiers had been spotted yet, and he could tell by Porthos’ anxious movement the other man was banking on that being the one thing keeping them alive.

“You lot,” he growled, waving his schianova toward the musket-bearer and the three bedraggled soldiers behind him, “get movin’.”

“Where do we go?” cried one; d’Artagnan couldn’t see who.

He was having a little trouble seeing much of anything at the moment.

“Anywhere’s better than here,” muttered another, a distinct note of surrender in his voice.

Porthos pulled d’Artagnan forward, snarling at the four wayward soldiers. “’ead east, there. To those trees.”

As one, they turned, following Porthos’ orders. d’Artagnan tried to keep up, keep his feet moving, but everything seemed to be moving opposite of what he wanted it to and to make matters worse, the fire that had been burning through his body minutes ago was starting to narrow its focus to his shoulder. His fingers were numb and he felt something wet and uncomfortable running down his side, beneath his leathers.

Reality caught up to him swiftly then, bringing nausea and a wave of blackness with it.

“No, you don’t,” Porthos gasped as d’Artagnan stumbled and went heavy against him. “You’re making it to them trees.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan panted, swallowing the bile that hit the back of his throat as the pain in his shoulder spiked.

“I _will_ carry your scrawny ass,” Porthos threatened.

“Not…scrawny,” d’Artagnan returned, focusing on the trees, willing them closer.

He saw the musket-bearer drop the heavy weapon in lieu of a rapier he plucked from the stiff hands of a fallen soldier. He saw one of the other young soldiers grab up a pistol and a cluck of lead balls, and felt Porthos sheath his sword to free his hand in grabbing up a spear. The group—save d’Artagnan, who was valiantly trying simply to stay conscious—collected weapons and ammunition as they scrambled over the dead and dying to the safety of the trees.

Once there, d’Artagnan clung to Porthos, willing his eyes to stay open as Porthos barked orders to the four cadet-like soldiers to dig a trench using the spear and build up sticks to camouflage them from the Spanish.

d’Artagnan was amazed at the speed with which each of the men followed Porthos’ orders. Or maybe it was just that his whole body seemed to have slowed down to a crawl. Even his breath was taking its sweet time in entering and exiting his lungs.

Porthos all-but dragged him behind the make-shift barricade the men were erecting and lowered him to the ground, resting him upright against the base of a large tree. The shouts of the Spanish soldiers sounded far away, as if they weren’t really there at all. There was nothing but the smoky sunlight filtering through the tops of the silent trees, the gasp of a light breeze against his sweaty face, the feel of safety in the shadows around them.

He blinked slowly, his body a special brand of tired. The kind that made everything else seem unimportant. He wanted nothing more than to sink into the earth and sleep.

“Ah, no…none of that now.” Porthos smacked his cheek, bringing his eyes back into focus. “You stay awake, you ‘ear me? Keep those eyes open.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan agreed again. It seemed easier at this point than telling Porthos that his head ached, his ears were ringing, his body was hollowed out, and there was a firebrand spearing his shoulder. “Sorry, Porthos.”

“Lemme look at this, then.” Porthos began to open the fasteners keeping d’Artagnan’s leather doublet closed, pulling the garment apart and easing the pauldron from d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Damn, boy,” the big man muttered, fear and concern sliding around the curse. “You sure know how to make a mess o’yourself, dontcha?”

“Not m’fault,” d’Artagnan protested, frowning at his friend.

It was true. He had just been standing there, after all.

“That so?” Porthos challenged, pulling the scarf from his head and ripping open the seams of d’Artagnan’s white shirt—now thoroughly soaked by his blood. In fact, d’Artagnan could feel blood soaking his entire side down through the leg of his breeches. “And who was it that decided to rip off ‘is armor in the middle of a bloody battlefield, eh? ‘At’s right: _you_.”

“Porthos—“ d’Artagnan’s continued protest was cut off as Porthos pressed the wadded-up scarf against the ragged hole bleeding freely just below he clavicle. “ _Oh, damn_ ,” he gasped, fingers digging into the ground, heels pressing him back against the tree. “Damn, damn, _damn_ ….”

“Yeah, you just keep up that swearin’,” Porthos nodded, peering at d’Artagnan’s face. “That way I know you’s alive and with me.”

“Not…not goin’…anywhere,” d’Artagnan panted.

Porthos flinched at the sound of a pistol shot, but it was too far away to be directed at them. He looked over his shoulder and d’Artagnan saw that the four cadets had made quick work of creating a shelter and barricade. Porthos called to the young Parisian who had accidentally shot d’Artagnan and brought him over.

“What do they call you, boy?” Porthos demanded.

“Bastien,” the lad responded, blue eyes darting fearfully between d’Artagnan and Porthos. “They’re George, Jon-Luc, and Thѐo,” he continued, pointing to the three still in the shallow trench they’d dug.

d’Artagnan recognized them as the group he’d attempted to bring with him further into battle, before their friend was skewered by a Spanish spear.

“’elp me with ‘im,” Porthos ordered, nodding toward the trench. Between Porthos and Bastien, d’Artagnan was relocated to the trench with a bit more covering from any potential prying eyes of the encroaching Spanish. “Bloody ‘ell. You’re bleeding all over the place, lad. Need to see to this wound,” Porthos continued once they were all settled.

“How?” d’Artagnan ground out. “You know needlework?”

“Learned a thing or two from Aramis,” Porthos nodded once. “Damn ‘is eyes. Would that ‘e were ‘ere now to do this.”

“Well, he’s not,” d’Artagnan pushed himself up straighter, seeing the dark look come over Porthos’ face once more. “And w-we’re cut off…from Athos and the rest, so it’s…it’s on us to get out of this.” He swallowed, looking at the four sets of scared eyes watching them from behind Porthos. “If we’re going to.”

“None of that talk,” Porthos shook his head, gripping d’Artagnan by the jaw and forcing his eyes front. “I’m not ready to die, ‘ere. Are you?”

“I’m not ready to die at all,” d’Artagnan shot back, suppressing a groan as his arm flared again.

“Sir,” spoke up one of the younger soldiers.

“What is it, runt?” Porthos gruffed, without taking his eyes from d’Artagnan. He was trying to reapply the make-shift bandage to slow the bleeding.

“My name is Jon-Luc,” the lad corrected.

d’Artagnan almost grinned at the glare Porthos shot the boy.

“But…that’s not important right now,” Jon-Luc continued, pulling his tri-corner hat from his head and running a hand through his sweaty, blond hair. “I worked beside my father in his apothecary. I saw him stitch up more than a few men.”

“That right?” Porthos sat back on his heels, his hand heavy on the bandage pressing against d’Artagnan’s shoulder. He shifted his dark gaze to the other three. “What about you lot?”

One simply shrank back, gripping a stolen spear and ducking behind it as though it could shield him from Porthos’ wrath.

“That’s George,” said the fourth. “He don’t talk much. I’m Thѐo. My father’s a butcher. His arm needs cut off, I can help. Not much beyond that.”

d’Artagnan knew Porthos felt the shudder that swept through him when the other man gripped his wrist slightly. He tried to steady his breathing, rattled by the fact that he could both hear and feel it rasping in his chest.

“Nobody’s losin’ arms today,” Porthos affirmed, looking over at Bastien. “What about you, then, marksman? You got us into this mess.”

“Bastien’s a street rat,” replied the ever-helpful Thѐo, “not even the Court wants ‘im.”

d’Artagnan kept his eyes glued to Porthos’ face, trying to anchor himself in his friend’s familiar expressions as his breath left him and his shoulder flared hot.

“You from the Court of Miracles?” Porthos asked Bastien, who hadn’t looked away from d’Artagnan’s blood-covered torso. Bastien nodded. “You know a woman named Flea?”

Bastien nodded again, blue eyes tracking to Porthos, clearly waiting for the punishment the big man would be dishing out for shooting his friend. “She gives me a place to sleep.”

Porthos looked back at d’Artagnan, almost apologetically. “Work with what we got, yeah?”

“’s okay, Porthos,” d’Artagnan reassured, trying to sound stronger than he felt and failing miserably. “Gonna be okay.”

Porthos took a breath, then looked up at the fading light. “Gonna be dark soon. Can’t risk a fire at night.” d’Artagnan watched as he looked out through the branch barricade to the smoky battlefield. “Won’t see one now with all the cannon smoke.”

“What do we need a fire for anyhow?” Thѐo asked.

“Cauterize the wound,” Bastien and Porthos replied in unison.

d’Artagnan felt his breath still, then pick up speed; he consciously tried to slow it down, breathing through his nose as Porthos pressed harder on his shoulder. If the damn world would stop spinning so much he might be able to calm himself down. As it was, Porthos’ face kept slipping in and out of focus as the shadows danced across his friend’s bruised and bloody features.

“’ere’s what’s gonna happen,” Porthos growled, worry making his tone sharp. “You two,” he nodded to George and Thѐo, “are on guard. You keep those pistols at the ready and shoot anyone wearing red what comes through those trees.”

“Yessir,” Thѐo replied. George nodded and pulled the hammer of the pistol in his hand back before taking position outside of d’Artagnan’s eye line.

Porthos looked at d’Artagnan. “We gotta get the ball out. Can’t get the bleedin’ to stop and we can’t seal it up inside ya…you’ll die of infection ‘fore we get back to camp.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan managed, ashamed that his voice held no more weight than a whisper. He couldn’t seem to stop shaking. It took his voice from him.

“’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“’s okay.” d’Artagnan closed his eyes as his body reacted to the pain that slid through him, then pried them open to stare directly at Porthos. “Trust you.”

Porthos licked his lips, then patted down his pockets. As though reading his mind, Bastien pulled a small flint stone from his own pocket and the other two young soldiers went to work building a fire near where Porthos sat crouched next to d’Artagnan. To keep his mind off of the way Porthos manhandled him, pulling his ruined shirt from his torso and ripping the non-bloodstained portions into bandages, d’Artagnan watched as Bastien and Jon-Luc moved in concert, as though they’d been serving together for years and not days, building the fire and heating the blade tip of a rapier.

“Saw Aramis do this on Athos once,” Porthos was saying as d’Artagnan clued in to his friend’s voice. “Athos weren’t none too ‘appy, ‘bout it, but ‘e lived.”

“When…when w-was this?”

“Shortly after Savoy,” Porthos revealed. “Neither of us left Aramis alone for long after that…was a good thing for Athos, turns out.” Porthos bowed his head, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Shoulda made ‘im come with us. Shouldn’t’ve just…just left ‘im there.”

“Porthos….” His personal feelings about Aramis’ choice seemed irrelevant in the face of Porthos’ frustration and self-doubt.

“’e _belongs_ with us, d’Artagnan,” Porthos muttered softly. “Not there. Not…not alone.”

“N-needs it, Porthos,” d’Artagnan tried, feeling his back bow slightly in an instinctive effort to get away from the pain. “The world…’s too dark for him…right now.”

Porthos frowned, looking like he wanted to say something else, but Bastien crouched next to him with the dagger. d’Artagnan swallowed, struggling to sit up, to brace himself. Jon-Luc moved around behind him, tugging his empty weapon’s belt free and folding it in two.

“Bite on this,” the apothecary’s son instructed.

d’Artagnan obeyed, never taking his eyes from Porthos’ face.

“You ‘old ‘im, lad,” Porthos instructed Bastien. “’e’s not gonna want to ‘old still; you make ‘im.”

Bastien nodded, and d’Artagnan felt one pair of arms wrap around him from behind and another set of strong hands at his wrists. He was instantly claustrophobic, his breath hammering roughly through his clenched teeth, panic choking him, turning the world on its side. Nausea built and boiled up through his throat and it was all he could do not to choke.

“’orthos,” he managed through the leather bit in his mouth.

“Easy, lad. Breathe,” Porthos instructed, one heavy hand lying flat against d’Artagnan’s chest, the other angling the tip of the dagger into the wound to seek out the musket ball. “That’s your only job. Keep breathin’.”

The searing pain of the heated metal against his broken skin sent d’Artagnan’s vision white. He closed his eyes tightly and arched away from the arms behind him, his head pressing back into a shoulder, his jaw clenched against the scream begging to be released. He bit down hard on the leather bit knowing any sound from him would be their undoing. Dimly, he heard Porthos cursing and felt another sharp pain cut through him as the blade dug around for the musket ball.

He began to shake in earnest, twisting his arms around to grip the wrists of the person at his front, trying to hold him in place. He dug his fingertips into flesh, needing to cause pain in reaction to the agony swimming through him. He couldn’t see, could barely breathe, and only a faint murmur of voices cut through the ringing in his ears.

Suddenly, the arms behind him loosened and he felt his back relaxing, his body practically melting backwards. The torture was over.

Almost.

Porthos didn’t give him time to recover between removing the musket ball and searing the wound closed. The flat of a heated blade burned a knotted mess of flesh on his damaged shoulder and d’Artagnan’s scream was muted by the leather strap between his teeth. Arms suddenly surrounded him, turning his world dark.

Minutes, hours, days later—it was impossible to tell—d’Artagnan felt life breathe around him once more. It was dark, he knew that much. He could feel the night clinging to him like wet sheets, weighing him down in a suffocating embrace.

Or…or, perhaps that was Porthos.

The strips of his shirt that had been salvaged were wrapped around his wound and the leather strap that had muzzled his cries of pain was now holding his arm close to his chest. He was resting against a warm, solid body, arms closed across him to, apparently, stave off his shivering.

Keeping his breathing slow and easy as though he were still asleep, he listened as Jon-Luc told Porthos how he and the others had come to be part of the King’s army against the Spanish. From what he could piece together, the generals had ridden through the streets of Paris, scooping up every able-bodied young man of a certain age, promising their families would be free of their debt if they served in the army for a year.

“What ‘appens to that debt you don’t make the year?” Porthos asked, his deep voice rumbling through his chest and across d’Artagnan’s back. d’Artagnan cracked his eyes open at this.

Jon-Luc shrugged expressively in the silver moonlight cutting through the trees and glinting off the armor he still wore. “We didn’t ask.”

“’course not,” Bastien huffed.

“What, like you’re any better?” Thѐo scoffed from his post next to George. “Not like you got family owing the King.”

“No,” Bastien conceded. “I’m just smart enough to recognize when I’m being used as a slave.”

The word seemed to spark something in Porthos and he sat forward, drawing an inadvertent groan from d’Artagnan and effectively silencing their conversation.

“There ‘e is,” Porthos said, his voice going soft with concern and relief. “Scared me a bit, lad.”

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan managed. His throat was on fire. “Water?”

Bastien handed Porthos a water skin and d’Artagnan tipped his chin up as Porthos helped him drink, calming the dragon of thirst within him.

“Ain’t got but one more between us,” Porthos said. “Gotta ration.”

d’Artagnan nodded. “How long ‘ve I been…out?”

“Not long. It’s just now dark,” Bastien answered. d’Artagnan rested his burning eyes on the younger man. “I am truly sorry, d’Artagnan,” Bastien continued. “If I could make it up to you—“

“How’re you gonna make up for shooting him, rat?” Thѐo scoffed.

d’Artagnan frowned. He’d known men—and boys—like Thѐo all his life. So scared of being discovered for the cowards they truly were they spent all their energy burning other people down around them. He’d dealt with them as a child and youth, prior to riding to Paris with his father. He decided to focus instead on Bastien; the lad was clearly remorseful.

“How old’re you?” he rasped, not moving away from where he lay against Porthos. He was grateful the big man didn’t seem inclined to move him either. He was honestly afraid any movement at all would spike the churn of his stomach to something he wouldn’t be able to stifle.

Bastien shrugged, very Parisian in his expressions. “Not sure. Twenty, maybe? My mother died when I was twelve and I lost track of my birthdays after that.”

d’Artagnan nodded. “I was about that age when I almost got Athos killed.”

Thѐo looked over quickly. “As in…our _Captain_ Athos?”

Porthos chuckled. “’ead full of fire,” he recalled. “You burst into the garrison like the Devil was at your ‘eels.”

“You…you _shot_ the Captain?” Bastien asked.

d’Artagnan shook his head and Porthos said, “Naw…but Athos _did_ shoot ‘im.”

Jon-Luc finally spoke up. “I’m completely confused.”

“My…point is,” d’Artagnan said, drawing Bastien’s eyes. “Things happen in the heat of the moment. You didn’t mean to shoot me. And you helped save my life. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“We’re not outta ‘ere yet, lad,” Porthos reminded him. “It’s gone quiet out there, but no telling where the Spanish are…and I’ve no idea where Athos and the rest of our men ‘ave gone.”

d’Artagnan lay quietly for a moment, trying not to count the heartbeats he could feel in his shoulder. The night was chilling him and he wished for his leathers and pauldron, just to have them near. The worry in Porthos’ voice was pervasive, and he knew that Athos had to be turning himself inside out to not be out searching for them.

“How long…do you want to wait around?” d’Artagnan asked.

For a moment no one spoke, and then Porthos began to chuckle, a low comforting sound that rattled up through d’Artagnan’s battered body like a tonic.

“You crazy Gascon,” Porthos said, resting his big hand on the top of d’Artagnan’s head affectionately. “What did we do before you joined us, eh?”

“Sounds like you…s-spent a lot of time…patching each other up,” d’Artagnan replied.

His heart fluttered strangely in his chest, his body shivering as he drew in a ragged breath. He wanted to move, needed to get warm, but the world had begun that swaying spin once more. He didn’t realize he’d vocalized his misery until he felt Porthos move his hand from the top of his head to his chest once more.

“What is it, lad?” Porthos asked.

“Cold,” d’Artagnan managed.

Porthos responded immediately, shifting forward as gently as he could and grabbing d’Artagnan’s leathers to wrap around him. His pauldron had slipped its moorings and d’Artagnan felt it land in his lap. He rested his free hand on top, running his fingers across the fleur-de-lis.

“Never knew this was always what I wanted,” he whispered.

“Wassat?” Porthos asked, arms coming around him again to lend their warmth.

“To be a Musketeer.” d’Artagnan swallowed. Something was shaking loose inside him, causing his heart to pound painfully, his breath to hitch. He couldn’t keep the tremble from his hands, his voice. “Porthos?”

“Right ‘ere, lad.”

“I miss him, too.”

Porthos’ only response was to rest his hand on top of d’Artagnan’s trembling fingers.

“But…w-we can’t h-hold on so tight—“ An exceptionally harsh throb in his shoulder caused him to gasp and close his eyes against the spinning shadows.

“d’Artagnan?” Porthos said his name with an urgency that scared d’Artagnan more than the weakness that was actively hollowing him out.

“…gotta…gotta let him….” He couldn’t catch his breath; his heart was racing, and he felt sick and chilled, but something pushed him to help Porthos understand: Aramis didn’t leave them. He was searching for himself.

“’ey, now, don’t do this, d’Artagnan.” Porthos shifted out from behind him and d’Artagnan felt himself lowered to the churned-up earth in the trench.

It felt like a grave. His grave. His heart slammed harder at the thought, taking his breath. Porthos was crouched in front of him, night stealing his features. He could see the glint of filtered moonlight off of Porthos’ leathers, but he couldn’t see his face.

“C-can’t see you….”

“’m right here, lad.” Porthos grabbed up his free hand, gripping it tight enough d’Artagnan could feel the rough callouses on his friend’s palm.

“Y-you may have b-been right…’bout the armor,” d’Artagnan conceded, earning a rough laugh from Porthos in return.

“We’re getting outta ‘ere, you and me,” Porthos said, gripping his hand and leaning close. “I’ll even take these whelps with us. You just keep breathin’.”

“Sh-should’ve listened t’you. To Athos. Didn’t…didn’t want to let him down.” He hadn’t registered the words before they slipped free; it was as if someone else was suddenly in charge of his mouth, his mind numb in defense against the pain.

“No need for regrets now, lad,” Porthos gruffed, a hand moving to smooth d’Artagnan’s hair from his forehead. “You listen when you’re ready; always ‘ave.”

“Didn’t…didn’t want to…fail you,” d’Artagnan continued, the words basically falling from his lips and floating in the air between them, hollow and weightless. The fire that burned from his shoulder through his trembling body seemed to scoop him out. “Tell Athos—“

“No!” Porthos barked and d’Artagnan jumped, his sharp gasps for air stilling for one brief second. “You do _not_ quit on me, d’Artagnan! I won’t allow it. Understand me, lad?”

d’Artagnan wasn’t sure if he nodded or his body shuddered; he simply kept his eyes toward Porthos’ voice. The big man flattened his free hand on d’Artagnan’s chest. d’Artagnan wondered briefly if the other man could feel the frantic slam of his heart.

“You refuse to die, d’Artagnan.”

This time, he did nod.

“Say it.”

“I r-refuse…to die.”

“Again.”

He couldn’t get enough air, but Porthos needed him to say it, and he didn’t want to disappoint. “I _refuse_ to die.”

“I’m getting’ you outta ‘ere.”

It was on that promise that d’Artagnan gave in to the encroaching darkness, his one hope being that Porthos would bury him with his pauldron.

It came as a complete surprise to him, therefore, when he opened his eyes to daylight, his body held solid, rocking slowly with a familiar, comforting cadence.

“I wouldn’t move just yet.” The familiar voice rumbled against him, sending currents of _relief_ and _home_ and _safety_ through his body.

His mouth felt as though it was filled with sand, his throat similarly afflicted, but he was able to croak, “Athos?”

“Did I not tell you to wear armor?” Athos’ voice was low, a casual sarcasm laced through his words that comforted d’Artagnan more than he wanted to admit.

“You did.”

“I trust you will listen to me from here on.”

It was then d’Artagnan realized he wasn’t straddling Athos’ horse; he was sitting sideways across the saddle, Athos behind the cantle, arms around him so that he could grip the reins. d’Artagnan blinked and lifted his head slowly, lest the world decide to spin sideways and dump him from the horse. He could see the top of Porthos’ head as the man walked next to them and heard the creak of leather and clatter of armor that bespoke of a number of other soldiers following their Captain.

Their Captain…who now held one of his own in his arms like a little boy.

Clearing the dust from his throat, d’Artagnan rasped, “Well. This is in no way incredibly awkward or embarrassing.”

“Told you ‘e’d not like this,” he heard Porthos state from beside Athos, not bothering to hide his relieved bemusement.

“Yes, well. I’ll try to survive his displeasure.” Athos didn’t bother to elaborate, simply kept a sturdy support for d’Artagnan to rest against.

As the company of men continued forward—to what d’Artagnan could only surmise was a return to their camp—he became a bit more aware of his surroundings. Besides a horrible taste in his mouth—leading him to believe at some point he’d given in to the nausea that had been plaguing him the previous night—and an intense ache in his shoulder, his body felt decidedly less hollow. His heart wasn’t slamming nearly as hard and he found he could actually draw a breath.

“Athos,” he started, seeking the right question to ask. _Why am I not dead_ might upset the man. He decided to go with, “How did I get here?”

There were a few quiet beats as he waited for an answer.

“Seems you have your attempted-murderer and his compatriots to thank for that,” Athos revealed.

“Bastien?”

Porthos chuckled. “’at boy’s reminds me of myself when I was ‘is age. Only…faster.”

d’Artagnan waited them out, able to tell by the smile relaxing Athos’ body that they _wanted_ to tell him. As it turned out, Porthos was the one to narrate. d’Artagnan learned that after he’d passed out from blood loss and shock, Jon-Luc sprang into action, using the ever-silent George to help him search for two particular weeds his father had told him would aid in healing and instructing Porthos to make d’Artagnan drink all of the rest of their water, if he could. Thѐo and Porthos used their coats to cover his shivering body as they couldn’t risk a fire and when Jon-Luc returned, he used spit to make a mud poultice with chickweed and yarrow.

“Your heart was working too hard,” Jon-Luc offered from somewhere behind them. “You needed water, is all.”

While the apothecary’s son was busy keeping d’Artagnan’s heart from giving out, Bastien took off under cover of night, slipping past the Spanish guards and finding one of the French soldiers on the graveyard shift gathering the bodies of their fallen comrades under the white truce of moonlight. The soldier pointed him in the direction of Athos and the rest of their camp.

“I readily admit to being rather…out of sorts when he arrived,” Athos commented dryly, shifting so that his shoulder offered better support for d’Artagnan’s head. “Took some temerity to get me to listen before I threw him in the stocks.”

“’at’s what growin’ up in the Court’ll give ya,” Porthos said, a grin clear in his voice. “Temerity.”

“Y’know, Bastien, sometimes you don’t seem like such a street rat,” Thѐo spoke up from near where Jon-Luc’s voice had echoed.

“Funny,” Bastien returned. “Sometimes you don’t seem like such a bastard, Thѐo.”

“Gentlemen,” Athos warned, but d’Artagnan heard the appreciative smile hidden in the word. “In any case, with permission from the General, we mounted a rescue mission to make our regiment whole.”

“I take it the permission was…reluctantly given?” d’Artagnan asked, gratefully taking the water skin that Porthos passed up his way.

“We lost many men yesterday,” Athos sighed. “Too many. Sword and pistol against cannon…it was a battle unwisely fought. We couldn’t afford _not_ to bring you each back home. The General saw the wisdom in this tactic.”

d’Artagnan lifted his head, wrapping his free arm around the one bound to his chest. There were easily a dozen men marching behind Athos, all looking as tired and worn as d’Artagnan felt, many with blood smearing faces, armor, weapons. But none looked resentful, none looked angry. He sat back, eyes forward, watching for signs of the camp, words of gratitude shrinking inside him as their adequacy vanished in light of what he’d been given.

“Athos,” he finally whispered. “Why?”

Athos was quiet for long enough, d’Artagnan wasn’t sure the older man had heard him.

“I told you,” Athos replied softly, “I could not allow you to die.”

“But…the men,” d’Artagnan choked out. “These men, they….”

“What did I say before we marched on the Spanish?” Athos asked, his voice louder now, purposefully carrying across the men marching behind him.

“We fight for the man next to us,” Bauer’s voice echoed out. d’Artagnan started; he hadn’t seen his blond friend in the mass of men he’d taken in with that quick glance. He was immensely relieved to know he’d survived. “Pretty sure you were next to me, d’Artagnan.”

d’Artagnan swallowed, feeling small, undeserving. Silence followed Bauer’s words and d’Artagnan simply rested against Athos, breathing, watching for their arrival at camp. When they reached the familiar grouping of canvas, many of the men broke off at Athos’ dismissal and sought out their beds and meals. It surprised d’Artagnan, however, to see that Bauer, Bastien, Jon-Luc, and George joined Porthos in following Athos to the medic’s tent.

The smell greeted them first: the sickly sweet odor of rot and blood mixed with the tang of metal and gunpowder hung heavy in the air around the mobile infirmary. Flies were abundant enough d’Artagnan could hear them buzzing over the low moans and sharp cries of the wounded. There were numerous men outside the tent on cots and on blankets, bloody bandages covering limbs, heads, and torsos.

Off to one side of the tent, more bodies were fully covered by blankets, awaiting the grave diggers. Athos pulled up to a stop before the main opening—out of sight of the bodies, but each man there knew they were one well-placed spear, sword, arrow, or musket ball away from joining their comrades at the side of the tent.

Porthos reached up and helped d’Artagnan slide from Athos’ saddle and caught him easily when his legs refused to hold. Bastien stepped up to his other side and carefully supported him without jostling his wounded arm.

“Feuilly!” Athos called, summoning the camp physician.

d’Artagnan stood quietly, grateful for the loan of strength on either side of him, as a weary-looking man with blood dried on his clothes and in his hair stepped out to regard them.

“I’ve a favor to ask,” Athos began.

Before he could continue, Feuilly approached d’Artagnan and scanned him from toe to brow with critical, dark eyes. He parted the edges of d’Artagnan’s leather jacket and peered at the bandage, peeling back a layer. He frowned, glancing askance at Porthos.

“Cauterized?”

“Wouldn’t stop bleedin’,” Porthos defended.

Feuilly dabbed at the remnants of the poultice that had been applied, sniffing the concoction. “Yarrow?” No one responded. “Who applied this poultice?”

“That would be me,” Jon-Luc stepped forward. “My father…he, uh. Trained me.” He cleared his throat. “Sort of.”

“You are the reason he’s standing here before me, then,” Feuilly declared, lifting a brow at the way Porthos and Bastien were each working to keep d’Artagnan on his feet. “Well, mostly standing.” He looked up at Athos. “Any reason you need this one back in the field?” He jerked his head toward Jon-Luc.

“Not at the sake of keeping our men in one piece,” Athos consented, clearly attempting to disguise his surprise.

Feuilly nodded toward Jon-Luc. “You’re now a medic, boy. Get some food and you can help me with this one.” He looked at d’Artagnan once more. “You can rest on the crates inside the door until we have a bed.” He then turned and went back into his tent.

Jon-Luc looked with shock from Athos to d’Artagnan and lastly to Bastien. “You breathe a word about this to my father and you’ll regret it,” he declared. d’Artagnan felt Bastien chuckle next to him. Jon-Luc pointed at ever-silent George before heading into the tent. “And don’t you go blabbing either.”

George simply smiled and shifted his weight to a hip, as though waiting to see what came next.

“d’Artagnan,” Athos called from atop his mount. Bastien and Porthos rotated so that d’Artagnan could face his mentor and Captain. “Rest here. There will be plenty of fighting waiting for you.”

d’Artagnan nodded.

“You others,” Athos glanced around at George, Bauer, Porthos, and Bastien, “go to your quarters and get some rest. We will be relocating within the week and I need my men healthy.”

Bastien glanced at George. “Go find Thѐo,” he said quietly. “I’ll be okay.”

George nodded, but Bastien’s words caused Athos to frown. “Where are you bunked?”

Bastien shrugged. “I just rotated into whoever’s on night guard,” he said.

d’Artagnan glanced at Porthos, earning a nod, then spoke up. “Athos. He can bunk in with us. There’s room.”

Athos arched a brow. “You realize he nearly killed you,” he cautioned.

“ _Nearly_ ,” d’Artagnan dared to grin at him. “It’s an important distinction.”

Athos narrowed his eyes. “Fine. You can have d’Artagnan’s bed until he’s able to return. We’ll find a spare for you,” he sighed, glancing toward the blanket-covered bodies next to the tent. “There will be several available.”

Laying the reins on the side of his horse’s neck, Athos turned to ride toward the General’s tent. d’Artagnan gripped Porthos’ shoulder for leverage and called out, “Athos, wait!”

Glancing back over his shoulder, Athos paused.

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan said, infusing the word with as much feeling as he could pull from his very tired soul. “Thank you for…keeping your word.”

Athos nodded and turned away, a smile ghosting his lips. Porthos and Bastien helped d’Artagnan into the medic’s tent, easing him down on the stack of crates as his legs trembled their last. Bastien nodded at the two of them and d’Artagnan smiled his thanks, expecting Porthos to follow the young Parisian out to get some much-needed sleep of his own. He was surprised when Porthos eased down on the crates next to him.

“What are you…?”

“You think I was just going to leave you ‘ere alone after all I did to keep you alive?” Porthos frowned at him. “You know me better ‘n that.”

d’Artagnan’s mouth pulled up in a half grin despite his weariness. He let himself lean a shoulder against Porthos, eyes on the activity around him. “Aramis couldn’t have done a better job.”

“Eh, ‘e might’ve,” Porthos shrugged. “But you’re still ‘ere, right?”

“Right.”

“And ‘e’s not.”

“No…he’s not.” d’Artagnan sighed, both hoping there would come a day in this war when they would be okay with the missing limb that was Aramis…and afraid for that day at the same time.

After several moments, Feuilly came over and told d’Artagnan he could clean and patch up his wound now. Porthos helped him stand and made sure he was balanced before leaving him to Feuilly’s care.

“I’ll be back, lad,” Porthos promised. “After I find you some decent armor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** Yarrow and chickweed are both used for medicinal purposes. Whether they grow in random woods on the French countryside, I have no idea. That’s one of those ‘go with it’ moments I’ll ask of you in the broad confines of fiction.
> 
> After a brief chapter bridging the present-day story and some tentative emotional healing for our four men, we will move a bit forward in the war and hear from Porthos next. I hope you’re enjoying thus far.


	3. Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. Caution for images of war and all that comes with it.

“It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation. War is hell.”   
– William Tecumseh Sherman

**

**Chapter 3: Bridge**

A beam of sunlight cut through a crack in the shutters, aimed directly at Constance’s eyes.

She woke slowly, soaking up the warmth in that ray, languidly stretching her arms over her head and pointing her toes, feeling muscles she hadn’t used in years twinging with a reminder of activity the night before. She shivered slightly, only realizing she was once more alone in bed when she opened her eyes and rolled to her side.

d’Artagnan’s side of the bed was cold.

She pushed upright, her hair falling over a bare shoulder, and glanced around the room quickly, expecting him to be standing in the shadows, waiting for her to wake. Pulling the sheet up to cover herself, she nearly called out to him but stopped, thinking of the cadets who by now had to be milling around the garrison. Wouldn’t do to have their supposed caretaker calling for her lover—and _husband_ , she reminded herself—first thing in the morning.

Figuring he probably got an early start, restless to return to duty, she sighed and rotated her legs off the edge of the bed, then drew back with a start. d’Artagnan lay on the floor, head pillowed on his leather jacket, the quilt that had been folded on top of Constance’s trunk wrapped around him. For a long moment, Constance simply stared at him, unsure how to find the logic in such an incongruous sight as her husband asleep on the floor next to their bed.

He looked exhausted, even in sleep.

The story he’d shared with her had worn her out; she couldn’t imagine how it had felt for him to relive it. She still wasn’t sure what she thought about it. Hooking her heels on the bedframe, she folded herself in half and simply watched d’Artagnan breathe for a moment.

He’d been afraid.

It wasn’t something she’d ever really considered as a possibility, his fear. d’Artagnan had always been brash and brave, jumping into the fray and trusting he would prevail…or that one of his brothers would grab him by the collar and haul him back before he got in too far over his head.

“Charles,” she whispered. He didn’t flinch.

Nodding as she made her decision, Constance rolled to the other side of the bed, dressing as quietly as possible—having to delve under her bed and behind her armoire for two crucial pieces of clothing—and slipped out of the room, leaving d’Artagnan to his rest. As she crept down the stairs leading to the courtyard of the garrison, she realized it wasn’t as late in the day as she’d first thought.

The cool mist of the morning was just starting to burn off, and she could hear the clink of metal as men stirred and donned boots and sword belts, fixing daggers and rapiers to sheaths and cleaning tack in the livery. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, Constance began to cross the empty expanse of the courtyard when she stumbled to a halt at the sight of Athos making his way down the steps from Treville’s former lodging.

He must have seen her stuttering movement from the corner of his eyes because he glanced up, his head bare, his jacket open and shirt unlaced, looking far more rested than her husband. The smile that relaxed his face and lit his eyes had her catching her breath; she’d never seen Athos look quite so at peace before.

“Athos,” she breathed, gathering her skirts and hurrying to the edge of the stairs, meeting him there in a collision of arms and happy gasps of air. He held her tight against him, all sense of propriety and reservation erased by the sheer relief of seeing each other— _alive_ —once more. “Welcome home,” she managed against his shoulder.

Athos released her and held her at arm’s length. “You are certainly a sight for these sore eyes, Constance d’Artagnan,” he smiled. _Smiled_.

Constance laughed, swiping an errant tear from beneath her eye and examining him. She reached up and tugged playfully at his longer hair, held back away from his face by a half-knot. “You boys went away to war and left your scissors at home, I see,” she sniffed.

“We lacked the motivation to carry forward with grooming, I’m afraid.”

She simply smiled at him. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have you all here. Home.”

“And where is your husband?” Athos shifted his weight to one hip, resting a hand on his sword hilt.

“Sleeping,” replied Constance, a frown folding her brow before she could school her features. She smiled, erasing it, but the look in Athos’ eyes told her she’d been caught. “I am headed to Serge for some breakfast to bring back.”

“You’re a good woman, Constance,” Athos replied, turning and resting a hand on her lower back to escort her toward the kitchens.

“Did I see you coming from Treville’s old quarters?”

Athos nodded. “Seems our old quarters were…repurposed. To accommodate cadets.”

She winced. “Ah, yes. Well, had we known….”

“I suppose you’re the one we see about living arrangements now?” Athos stepped aside and let Constance walk into the welcoming warmth of the garrison kitchens ahead of him.

“Indeed,” she agreed. “With Treville acting as Minister, he has quarters both here and at the palace.” She glanced at him. “Did you _all_ sleep in his rooms?”

Athos tipped his head. “Sleep is a relative term.”

She sat on a free bench and leaned against the wall, angeling her head up to stare at him longer. “I can’t get over this change in you,” she marveled. “You’re…you seem… _relaxed_. So much more so than d’Artagnan.”

A shadow passed its hand across Athos’ expression. “War has a way of changing people, Constance. Some in places not so easily seen.”

She worried her lower lip with her teeth. “He’s…. There are scars I didn’t expect to see. He never wrote me about being wounded, and there are some….” She shook her head. “He’s not the same man who left me here four years ago.”

Athos looked out through the opened doorway as the courtyard filled with sunlight. “And are you the same woman?”

Constance crossed her arms, looking toward where Serge worked to prepare the morning offering of bread, cheese, and cold meat, thinking of the progression of her move to caretaker of the garrison.

“No,” she confessed softly. “No, I am not.”

Still not looking at her, Athos continued, “These four years were…not kind to any of us.” He glanced askance at her. “You know d’Artagnan’s heart.”

Constance nodded.

“It’s a rough thing to have something so great battered so thoroughly.”

“He’s always been so....”

“Impetuous?” Athos filled in with a small smile.

“That’s one word for it,” Constance echoed his smile.

“He does tend to throw himself headlong into danger,” Athos nodded. “And that never wavered. Truth be told, it was that brash bravery of his—and not duty or honor or the words of our leaders—that rallied our men more times than I’d like to recall.”

Constance sat quietly, thinking about the sudden change of her life with the men returned home, as Athos greeted Serge with the same smile and relief. He gathered food and brought it back to where Constance sat waiting.

“Should we allow d’Artagnan his rest and have our breakfast together?”

Constance smiled. “I’d like that.”

Athos led her to the common table. “Do the men still dine together here?”

“Sometimes,” Constance smiled. “The cadets tend to eat on the run, most days. They are all quite young—too young to have been swept up in the recruitment of the war. It’s all Serge can do to keep meat on their bones.”

Athos sat and looked around the courtyard. “Nothing has changed and yet…,” he took a bite of bread, “everything is different.”

Constance nodded, watching the garrison come to life around them, thinking about d’Artagnan’s story of his first battle. “I should have asked more questions when I wrote him,” she confessed, softly. “I should have made him talk to me.”

“I doubt he would have listened,” Athos smiled softly, tipping his cup to his lips. “This _is_ d’Artagnan we’re talking about.”

“When he talked about that first battle…,” she sighed and looked down. “It sounded like chaos. And terror.”

“That’s about the way of it,” Athos nodded, “when you pit sword against cannon. Truthfully, I’m surprised he was forthright with you about that day.”

Constance lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t give him a choice. He had a nightmare,” she glanced at Athos, then looked away, “and it frightened me.”

Athos pulled at the tip of his beard. “Don’t be surprised if there are more, Constance. This past year—“

“Please do not tell me he lived all of it in fear,” Constance sighed, resting her forehead in her hands and feeling her heart sink inside her at the idea of her husband being afraid rather than courageous.

“You misunderstand,” Athos said, his voice suddenly hard. Constance snapped her head up, meeting his eyes. “d’Artagnan was no more afraid than any of us. Much was asked of him, and he gave _everything_. All he had. Even when it was asked by someone who thought of the men as cannon fodder.” Athos’ jaw muscle danced as he tighted his grip on the cup in his hand. “Soldiers are rarely offered a choice. It is incumbent upon their leaders to be men of honor. When that was not the case, d’Artagnan found the honorable path.”

“I-I’m sorry, Athos,” Constance stammered in the wake of his clipped retort. “I didn’t mean—“

“I know,” Athos, broke in. “And _I’m_ sorry. But I cannot stand by and let you form an opinion of the man you married based on one story.”

“I saw the scar from that battle,” she revealed. “I mean, _obviously_. It’s just there on his shoulder and not something a wife would miss.” Her cheeky smile relaxed Athos’ shoulders. “And I pushed him.”

“You are a hard woman to resist when you’ve set your mind to something,” Athos admitted. “There was a moment…I almost wish you could have seen him, though you would most likely have been incensed. He fought like a man possessed.”

“Now that does sound more like him,” she smirked.

“He and Porthos had managed to get themselves cut off from the regiment,” Athos began, but paused and straighted, a welcoming smile curling his lips beneath his beard. “Ah, there’s the man himself.”

Constance half-turned, expecting d’Artagnan and was caught up in a quick hug as Porthos decended upon the common table.

“If it isn’t Madam d’Artagnan,” Porthos greeted.

Constance laughed, gesturing next to her for him to sit and handing him a cup of wine. “You’re looking well,” she said.

“Naturally,” Porthos readily agreed, grabbing a chunk of bread and biting the end with relish. He looked over at Athos. “What’s all this ‘bout us getting cut off from the regiment?”

Athos lifted his chin. “d’Artagnan told her about La Hougue,” he replied.

Constance watched Porthos’ face darken. “That was a rough time, for sure. Scared the piss outta me, ‘e did.”

“You saved his life,” she said, resting a hand on his forearm in gratitude.

Porthos shrugged. “Only so ‘e could keep me in one piece after that.”

“Yes, Athos was saying something about that,” Constance began, eager for more information on the time her husband had spent away from her.

Before she could prompt more details, however, she felt the two man in her company go oddly still, and looked around to see Aramis standing, sans coat or hat, his white shirt loose over his breeches and his sword hanging on his hip. Constance hadn’t seen him during his time at Douai; she couldn’t know how the robes had fit him differently, how the sword felt both right and awkward against his leg. But she saw on his face an uncertainty of his place, a yearning to belong once more haunting his dark eyes.

Without a thought, she stood and crossed to him, opening her arms and smiling at his reflexive gesture to embrace her back, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Constance,” he greeted, his voice honey-warm and welcoming, just as she remembered.

“Welcome home,” she replied, holding him at arm’s length for a moment, then tucking her hand into the bend of his arm and leading him to the table to join the others.

Folding his lips down in a self-depricating frown, Aramis shook his head slightly. “It’s not as if I’ve been to war,” he stated.

Constance caught Porthos’ head bounce as he reached for some meat. She wasn’t certain he was aware that he’d done it, but Aramis sat stiffly, watching his friend. In a moment of painful clarity, Constance realized that Aramis was even more separated from these men than she was.

The details mattered now, she realized. The tense silence that fell across the four of them in this brief interlude was filled with unspoken thought where there had once been a comfortable quiet of understanding. The uncertain posture, the slight pause before speaking…they were all tells of a mending relationship between men who’d been broken in one way or another.

“Nonsense,” Constance stated emphatically, drawing both Aramis’ and Athos’ eyes. “There are all sorts of battles. You think because I haven’t been running around the countryside carrying a musket I haven’t been to war these last four years?” All three men blinked at her, shaking their heads in unison. She rested her eyes on Aramis. “Your fight may have been the most difficult of us all, Aramis. You battled with your conscience, and you did so alone. Without the company of friends.”

She watched as Porthos looked across the table at Aramis, setting his cup down slowly and lifting his chin in understanding and acknowledgement. Aramis visibly relaxed at that, his lips tilting up in a smile that managed to ease the tension of the whole table.

“Where’s your ‘usband gotten off to?” Porthos asked, brushing crumbs from his jacket.

“Sleeping, hopefully,” Constance replied. “He had a long night.”

The sly grin shared between Aramis and Porthos was immediate and Constance swatted the man nearest her, caushing Aramis to raise his hand in surrender.

“None of that,” Constance admonished, though she couldn’t help a grin of her own. It was good to see these two share a private joke. Meeting Athos’ eyes, she sobered. “He had a nightmare that…well, when I woke him, for a moment he didn’t remember where he was. And this morning, I…,” she paused, crossing her arms over her chest. “I found him sleeping on the floor.”

Porthos sat back, glancing askance at Athos.

Aramis tipped his head. “I wouldn’t be too worried about his sleeping on the floor,” he reassured her. “Soldiers often rest on the ground for days or weeks at a time. It’s…difficult, to say the least, to find rest in something as soft as a bed.” He glanced at her. “No matter who shares it.”

Athos nodded in agreement. “d’Artagnan was troubled by dreams all this past year, after….” He tapered, frowning. “There was a battle. Many were lost.”

“He never told me,” Constance lamented.

Porthos looked down. “It weren’t something easy to talk about…let alone with someone who represents the only light in your world.”

“Why Porthos, you’ve the heart of a poet,” Aramis commented with a small smile.

Porthos shrugged. “I ‘ad a good teacher, once upon a time.”

“What did you mean,” Constance turned toward Athos, “when you said d’Artagnan fought like a man possessed when he and Porthos were trapped?”

“Eh, we were more than trapped,” Porthos interjects. “I was bleedin’ out right there in the field with fire all ‘round us and the Spanish bastards comin’ at us from all sides.”

“You were wounded?” Aramis sat forward, his brow puckered with worry.

“Spear to the flank,” Porthos nodded, parting his jacket and lifting his loose shirt briefly to flash a knotted scar that looked a bit like the one at d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

Constance winced in sympathy, her gut tensing at the thought of the pain these men had gone through in the name of King and country.

“My friend,” Aramis exhaled. “I am….”

“Nah, now don’t you go apologizing for not bein’ there,” Porthos dropped his shirt and held up a hand. “We’ve covered that. And when I said we learned to live w’out you, I meant it. And not in the way I meant it before, neither.” He glanced at Athos and nodded. “We figured out ‘ow to keep each other patched up and on our feet and we all came ‘ome.” He leaned forward, chin tipped down so he could catch Aramis’ downcast eyes. “Even you, Aramis.”

“Tell me about the fire,” Constance entreated as Aramis squirmed under Porthos’ open gaze. She looked at Athos. “Tell me about d’Artagnan.”

Athos opened his mouth, but Porthos held up a hand once more. “’e couldn’t do it justice. This is my story to tell.”

“Far be it from me to take away from your heroics, my friend,” Athos teased, sitting back and propping one leg up on the free bench. Constance watched him scan the garrison courtyard quickly and assumed he was looking for d’Artagnan.

“It was ‘bout two years after La Hougue…and pretty much the ‘ottest summer I can remember,” Porthos began, eyes on the palms of his upturned hands, voice somewhat hushed as he fell into memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** Thank you for reading. Porthos’ story comes next.


	4. For the People (Porthos)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. Caution for images of war and all that comes with it.

“To win a war, we must kill our enemies.” – Hemingway

**

**Chapter 4: For the People (Porthos)**

It was the flies that got to him most.

He’d seen death before. Seen it his whole life. It was both cause and effect of growing up on the streets, living in the Court of Miracles, fighting with each breath for the chance to have once more day.

There had been those who had died from neglect, from bad choices, from the evil of another. There had been those who had died from his hand in protection of the King, in protection of a brother, in protection of himself. There had even been those who had died because he hadn’t been able to protect them.

But there’d never been this many flies.

“Take it easy.”

He lifted his head at the sound of d’Artagnan’s low voice. The lad—he almost couldn’t call him that any longer with nearly two years of war and survival aging him—was standing close to Bastien, moving through the dead strewn across the battlefield. Porthos could see the young Parisian press the back of his hand to his mouth as he looked down at one of their fallen, swaying against d’Artagnan with the horror of the aftermath.

As Porthos watched, d’Artagnan rested his hand on Bastien’s shoulder and turned him away from the sight of the battlefield, guiding him toward the group of men too wounded to fight, but not wounded enough for a stretcher bearer. Porthos was too far away to hear what d’Artagnan said as he eased Bastien to the ground and plucked a canteen from the hand of another soldier, but he recognized the offer of comfort in the curve of the Gascon’s shoulders, and the tilt of his dark head.

They’d had their tails kicked. Again. After nearly two years battling the Spanish, they were no closer to ridding their lands of the intruders than they were when this whole bloody mess started. Porthos dropped the broken spear he’d been holding and made his way toward where Bastien and d’Artagnan had been standing.

With a reluctant exhale, Porthos cast his eyes down to the bodies at his feet and winced when he saw a familiar face. _Thѐo_. The young Parisian had been a pain in the ass, that was certain, but he’d been _theirs_. And he’d arrived with Bastien; no wonder the boy had taken the death hard.

“Porthos?”

d’Artagnan’s voice suddenly at his shoulder startled the other man and he jerked slightly away.

“I see Bauer finally got armor for you that doesn’t sound the alarm when you move,” Porthos observed in lieu of admitting the young Gascon had startled him.

“You okay?” d’Artagnan asked, not bothering to address his obvious deflection.

“Not ‘urt, if that’s what you mean.”

“It isn’t.”

War had changed them all that was certain. But none so much as d’Artagnan. He wasn’t the brash, impetuous farm boy that had stormed into the garrison seeking the life of his father’s murderer. He still struck out with his heart over his head, that much was unchanged, but he now moved with a thought toward consequences.

Seeing so much death put a weight on all of them. Causing so much death added the chains.

“I’ll be fine,” Porthos assured him. It was true. He would. He always was. It simply took him more effort some days than others.

He looked askance at d’Artagnan, wondering what thoughts churned behind the younger man’s dark eyes. d’Artagnan looked out across the field, the fading sunlight glinting off the armor of their fallen comrades and their enemies alike, death erasing ethnicity and religion and race as easily as if God had swept them all with the same cloth and declared them to be one.

A hot breeze kicked up the stench of blood and bile and metal and gunpowder, stirring d’Artagnan’s long hair back away from his sweaty, dirt-streaked face and picked up the tails of Porthos’ head scarf. After a moment of reflection, d’Artagnan looked at him. When he spoke, it was deliberate yet detached. As though he was selecting his words from inside a box of thorns.

“If the General has his way,” his said, his dark eyes level and serious, “we will all be cannon fodder in his Crusade.”

Porthos frowned. “That’s near treasonous,” he cautioned.

d’Artagnan lifted an eyebrow. “Are you going to report me?”

“’Course not,” Porthos scoffed, his eyes tracking away from d’Artagnan and down to Thѐo once more. “’e made me crazy, that one,” he said of the young Parisian. “With ‘is arrogance and ‘is disdain.”

d’Artagnan looked down. Not at Thѐo’s body. Not at anything, Porthos realized.

“But ‘e was ours. One of us.”

“I overheard him yesterday,” d’Artagnan confessed, “yelling at Bastien over…I don’t even know what.” He shrugged; lacking a weapon to occupy them, his hands came to rest on hips. “He said that we needed people like him so that we could point and say, _that’s the bad guy_.”

“’e weren’t a bad guy,” Porthos grumbled, rubbing the top of his head. “’e’s just a kid. _Was_ just a kid.”

d’Artagnan looked past him at someone approaching from the direction of their camp. “Spanish don’t care one way or another, do they?”

Porthos turned, following d’Artagnan’s eye line, to see Athos riding slowly toward them. The older man was slumped inelegantly in the saddle, painting quite a different picture than his typical, commanding posture. Porthos felt anxiety ripple through the air from d’Artagnan seconds before the younger man moved past him toward the horse.

“Athos?” d’Artagnan called, his pace picking up when the other man didn’t respond.

Porthos followed, his armor heavy and stifling in the summer air, the buzzing of the flies increasing in intensity as they parted before him. d’Artagnan grabbed the horse’s bridle, halting the animal, as he reached up for Athos. Porthos saw their Captain’s blue eyes blinking blearily down at the young Gascon then close, giving in to whatever damage this battle had done to him as he slumped sideways from the saddle.

d’Artagnan caught him easily, pulling the man from his horse in a strong grip and holding him carefully as they sank to the ground, the bodies of their enemies and allies forming a macabre wall around them.

“Athos?” d’Artagnan breathed, pushing the older man’s hair from his face, searching for obvious wounds. Porthos dropped to his knees beside the two, Athos’ horse dancing nervously behind him. He shot his gaze between their faces as d’Artagnan hissed. “He’s burning up, Porthos.”

“Dammit,” Porthos growled. “I knew it. From pulling that bastard outta the river yesterday.”

d’Artagnan nodded, no doubt remembering as Porthos did the way their General ignored Bauer’s warning that the river was flowing too swiftly for safe crossing. He’d been knocked from his horse and quickly submerged by the weight of his armor, compelling Athos to wade in and rescue him. Athos had swallowed quite a bit of river water by the time he’d managed to get the man to safety and the General hadn’t allowed the march to stop so that Athos could recover, claiming they’d lost too much time.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan called again, tapping the older man’s bearded cheek gently, trying to bring him around. “Look at me, Athos.”

“Times like these, I really ‘ate religion,” Porthos grumbled, feeling a longing for Aramis like a stab in his heart.

He had worked to accept Aramis’ choice—mostly for the sake of d’Artagnan and Athos who stalwartly faced their new reality without their friend at their side—but each time a comrade fell, each time the odds were against them, and each time Porthos feared this day would be his last, his thoughts flew to Aramis and to the fact that he’d chosen religion over brotherhood.

d’Artagnan didn’t follow his line of thinking, however, his full attention on Athos. He shot an irritated glance over his shoulder toward Porthos and his dark eyes caught on something. Porthos shifted to see what his young friend was looking at just as d’Artagnan called out.

“Jon-Luc! Over here!”

Porthos saw the young Parisian medic moving with the stretcher bearers among the ravens and flies. Their sure, measured movements set them apart from the inevitable thieves that haunted the aftermath of battle, seeking discarded weapons or trinkets that might bring some extra money to those left destitute from the war.

Jon-Luc’s head jerked up at the sound of d’Artagnan’s shout and Porthos saw him scan the trio with anxious eyes, then look around for others. He knew the boy was searching for his friends. George hadn’t fallen in the battle, but Porthos had lost track of him in the aftermath. Jon-Luc would see Bastien soon enough when the other boy recovered from the shock of death. As for Thѐo….

“Over here, _now_!” d’Artagnan shouted again and Porthos watched Jon-Luc shift his medic’s bag on his hip and wade through the carnage to reach them. As he closed in, d’Artagnan continued, “It’s Athos.”

Something shifted in Jon-Luc’s expression and he picked up his pace. Porthos moved back, making room as the lad dropped to his knees beside d’Artagnan.

“Is he wounded?”

“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan replied. “But he’s burning up.”

As Jon-Luc reached for Athos’ sweaty face, the older man stirred, swiping a clumsy arm in an arc that shoved the medic’s hand away.

“’m fine,” Athos muttered, blinking his eyes open and struggling to sit up. Porthos frowned at how easily d’Artagnan was able to push the man back down. Athos looked up at him, clearly confused. “Why am I on the ground?”

“Yeah, you’re fine all right,” Porthos muttered.

“Where are you wounded, Athos?” d’Artagnan demanded.

Athos opened his mouth, clearly set on denying anything was wrong once more, but was cowered by the challenge on d’Artagnan’s face. An entire paragraph of _don’t you dare try to deny it_ and _you wouldn’t let me get away with this_ and _I need to be strong before my men_ and _lead by example_ passed between them in the space of two heartbeats. The clear connection between the two friends left Porthos just this side of jealous; he’d had that once and it was stolen away.

“My arm,” the Captain finally replied.

d’Artagnan shifted so that Jon-Luc could get at the wound, struggling a bit with Athos’ armor and the leather sleeve tied to his jacket. Once freed, Porthos dragged air through his teeth at the sight of the wound. The slash across Athos’ bicep was puckered and seeping, infection clear in the reddened skin.

“What the hell?” d’Artagnan snapped at his Captain, fear and anger battling for dominance of his expression. “That’s not recent, Athos.”

“I expect your little swim yesterday didn’t help it much,” Jon-Luc muttered as he gently palpated the wound. Porthos knew the young man wasn’t quite comfortable calling out his commanding officers on their poor choices.

d’Artagnan, however, wasn’t hindered by such hesitancy. “How could you be so stupid?”

“’ey, now…,” Porthos edged.

“No, he’s right,” Athos sighed, closing his eyes and sinking a bit against d’Artagnan as Jon-Luc drew out some salve and a clean bandage. “If one of you had carried forward with a wound like this—“

“You’d have kicked our asses!” d’Artagnan interrupted, anger having apparently won the battle.

“And they’d deserve it, too,” Porthos grumbled.

“Yes, okay,” Athos sighed, wincing as Jon-Luc applied the salve. “I believe we’ve covered my indiscretion quite thoroughly. Now, get me back up on my horse.”

“Like hell,” d’Artagnan snapped.

This brought Athos’ eyes open. “I am still your commanding officer,” he pointed out.

“You’re also my brother,” d’Artagnan said softly. “And I’m not letting you just go back to that…lunatic for more orders before you are able.”

Jon-Luc darted a shocked look at the Gascon. Porthos and Athos exhaled twin sighs of exasperation. d’Artagnan’s disregard for the perils of insubordination would never cease to amaze them.

“As I was saying,” Athos regrouped, aided in sitting forward by Jon-Luc’s strong arm, and leveling his blue eyes on d’Artagnan. “I am still your commanding officer and as such nothing will prevent me from carrying out my duty to you and my men.” He took a long drink from the waterskin Porthos handed him.

d’Artagnan narrowed his eyes, resting his gaze on the bandage Jon-Luc had finished tying off. “Other than the obvious, I assume you mean.”

Porthos watched with barely-suppressed amusement as the two men stared at each other, both too stubborn to back down.

“All right,” he finally broke in, weariness winning the struggle of wills. “’ere’s ‘ow it’s gonna go.” All three men looked up at him. “d’Artagnan, you ride with Athos back to the General, get the orders, then bring our stubborn Captain to the medic’s tent. I’ll go with Jon-Luc to get our wounded back to the camp.” He rested his eyes momentarily on the young medic. “I’m thinking Bastien could use a friend right about now.”

He waited a moment for their assent, then reached a hand down to Athos. The other man grabbed it and gained his feet, leaning heavily on Porthos as he caught his balance. Porthos took advantage of the moment to leave a parting thought in his Captain’s ear.

“Don’t ‘old yourself in so little regard, my friend,” he murmured, feeling Athos tense against him as he listened. “’e needs you, alive and well. Just as you need ‘im. Get me?”

Athos nodded, then pushed away from Porthos’ shoulder, turning to his horse. d’Artagnan helped Athos mount, then glanced at Porthos with gratitude.

“See you,” Porthos told him, watching as the younger man swung unaided up behind Athos’ saddle and balanced himself as Athos turned the horse back toward the camp.

Looking at Jon-Luc, Porthos sighed. The medic was staring past him at the bodies not yet reached by the stretcher bearers. He knew the young man had spied Thѐo.

“I’m sorry, Jon-Luc,” Porthos said, sincerely.

Jon-Luc swallowed. “Funny thing is…I never really liked him. But…he was from home.”

Porthos nodded. “There’s another from ‘ome who could use your ‘elp.”

Jon-Luc nodded and the two men walked from the battlefield to the make-shift triage spot where men were being treated for various wounds as best they could before being sent back to camp. Porthos tried not to look at the sea of faces before him, the hollow expressions, blood from wounds turned into war paint.

“Where—“

Porthos turned Jon-Luc toward Bastien and followed as the young medic made a bee-line to his friend. Blocking out the low cries of pain and whispered curses of protest, Porthos knelt next to where Bastien was sitting, the blue irises of his eyes enhanced by the blood-shot red resulting from battlefield smoke and more than a little emotion. Bastien didn’t see them at first, staring at some horror only he was privy to, until Jon-Luc non-too-gently grabbed his chin, forcing the young man’s gaze front.

“Bastien,” Jon-Luc barked. “It’s me. You with me?”

“Jon-Luc?” Bastien blinked, looking startled to see someone so close to him. “What…?” He looked around him at the men sitting nearby, then beyond at the few who were ready for the long, slow march back to camp, then back toward his friend. Without preamble, he blurted, “Thѐo’s dead.”

“I know,” Jon-Luc replied.

“I saw him fall,” Bastien continued, his throat working convulsively. “d’Artagnan pulled me aside and Thѐo just…the spear hit him and I….”

“It’s okay,” Jon-Luc tried, his voice tight—not from the recollection of Thѐo’s demise, Porthos saw, but in reaction to Bastien’s shock. “You’re okay, Bastien.”

“Are you wounded at all?” Porthos asked, watching as more men took to their feet to make their way back to camp, thinking of Athos and d’Artagnan facing off with the General, Athos too feverish to stand unaided.

Bastien shook his head, his disheveled black hair and tear-filled blue eyes making him appear achingly young to Porthos. “I…I don’t think so.”

Porthos reached for the young Parisian’s arm. “Let’s get you up, then.”

Between Porthos and Jon-Luc, Bastien stood, seeming to come back to himself a bit more as they began to move. Porthos let the young medic guide his friend and made his way down the line, helping more men get to their feet and get moving, a sixth sense telling him that the Spanish would be back to collect their dead and wounded soon and he didn’t want these men around when that occurred.

Keeping one eye on the duo in his charge and another on the parade of walking wounded, Porthos made steady progress toward the camp. As the canvas tents came into view, he returned to Jon-Luc’s side, picking up the tail-end of Bastien’s recollection of the battle.

“…he just moved like water. The soldiers kept coming at us…they were everywhere, all around us, and d’Artagnan just cut through them. It was almost like he didn’t see them as men. They were more like…targets.” Bastien swallowed, his eyes still on the middle distance. “His face…it never changed. Not until one came at me and then he was like…it was like watching something precious shatter.” He shuddered.

Porthos nodded without thinking about it. He’d seen that expression on d’Artagnan’s face before: terrible and perfect at once. The rest of them—Athos especially, and Aramis to a degree—were much more skilled at masking their true emotions, but d’Artagnan’s heart was etched on his features.

And there was no disguising his fury.

“Honestly, I’m surprised he’s only landed in the medic’s tent that once,” Jon-Luc confessed. “I know I’m always part of the battle after the fact, but I see him. I see all of you.”

Porthos matched his stride to the young medic’s, thinking about his being left behind as all his friends rode out into battle, never knowing if they would return. Battle was the only thing that broke up the monotony of this war. Ironically, it was the only thing right now that was keeping Porthos alive.

After nearly two years fighting the Spanish, the men had fallen into a routine. The food was tasteless, when it rained the barracks leaked from the constant moving of the camp, the weather alternately froze them or cooked them, and there weren’t enough munitions or gun powder to arm every soldier marching into battle. They instead depended on swords, spears, and arrows.

Against cannon fire.

Save a few of their Captains, Porthos had completely lost faith in their leaders—the General of their battalion was repeatedly inclined to pit man against cannon more often than not. Their only bits of levity came from a chess board that Bastien had misappropriated at some point along the way, wine that Porthos was ever able to procure, and the stories shared about past exploits from Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan.

It was in those moments Porthos allowed himself to think of Aramis without the bitter taste of regret and betrayal coating his tongue. When the suave marksman was brought alive in the retelling of adventures, Aramis was real for them once more and could have been sitting next to Porthos, that soft grin on his face, amusement in his dark eyes.

He was jolted out of his reverie as the trio reached the tent they shared with d’Artagnan. The Gascon was pacing the length of the tent like a caged tiger, hair pushed away from his face by anxious fingers. Athos was nowhere to be seen.

“Oi,” Porthos called. “What’s all this, then? You’re wound tight enough to be a fuse.”

“He wouldn’t let me in.” d’Artagnan’s voice was low, feral, devoid of anything but anger. “Athos is barely on his feet and the bastard sent me away.”

“Who?” Jon-Luc asked.

“The General,” Porthos growled. d’Artagnan looked at him and Porthos knew exactly what the Gascon was asking as he stood, silent and nearly trembling with his rage. Porthos looked at Jon-Luc. “Stay ‘ere,” he ordered. “Wait for us.”

“Where are you—“

Before Jon-Luc could finish his question, d’Artagnan and Porthos burst through the flap of the tent, heads full of steam. So intent were they on seeking out Athos, they nearly ran the man down as he approached the tent in an awkward, stumbling gait. Porthos grabbed the other man by his upper arms in instinctive reaction, drawing a pained cry from Athos as he inadvertently gripped the infected wound.

“Athos!” d’Artagnan cried. “Where—how did you—?”

“Let’s get ‘im back to the tent,” Porthos suggested, adjusting his grip.

They returned to the tent, their entrance met by two very surprised expressions. Porthos immediately ordered Bastien to fetch some water, the action seeming to rattle the young Parisian back to a semblance of his usual self. He stepped back as Jon-Luc moved in to tend to Athos’ wound.

“You need to stay still,” Jon-Luc admonished, reaching into his bag for clutches of herbs, grinding up a paste when Bastien returned with water.

Athos was in no mood to lie placidly and await treatment. Porthos had seen that storm brewing on his friend’s face many times before—it put him in the mind of Milady De Winter’s antics several years ago in Paris. No one could get under Athos’ skin quite like his wife.

Their General, however, seemed to be vying for a title of some kind.

“He wants to move the men again,” Athos finally growled as Jon-Luc cleaned out his wound. His face was drawn, pale, and a sheen of sweat pulled his long hair against his cheeks. “Only this time, he has a camp in mind.”

“Wait, wassat? A camp?” Porthos asked, confused.

Athos bit back a cry of pain as Jon-Luc put pressure on his cut, sluicing the infection out as best he could with his patient twitching and fidgeting on the bunk. d’Artagnan stood off to the side, one arm wrapped around his middle, the other fist pressed against his mouth as if physically preventing himself from speaking.

“A tenement camp,” Athos clarified, breathless, his free hand gripping the edge of the bunk until his knuckles were white.

Porthos frowned, glancing to the side and meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes, seeing the same horrific realization that he felt captured there. The war had been hellish on France—not just on the soldiers, but on the villages and farmers as well. A good many of the people of France from the smaller towns and settlements had been driven from their homes and had gathered in tenement camps scattered across the countryside.

“The General has ordered me to take a small group of men,” Athos continued, short bursts of breath punching through his words, “to clear out a camp a few miles from here…to make way for a significant advance of troops…and to…take land from the Spanish.”

“And where are they to be relocated?” Bastien asked, his voice thin, fragile, the edges of realization just beginning to saturate his words.

Athos looked directly at Porthos, clearly knowing the impact his words would have. “The orders are just to clear out the refugees,” he said, his jaw trembling as Jon-Luc finished packing his wound with the poultice. “Nothing about where to take them.”

The insinuation was clear.

“Athos…,” Porthos breathed, not tearing his gaze from his friend’s face.

The look in Athos’ eyes was crippling. Defying the orders meant court-martial, even death. Obeying the orders meant betraying his mortal soul. Killing during battle, or in protection of King and country was a forgivable sin. Something every soldier made their peace with the moment they picked up a weapon. Killing the innocent…Porthos couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

“We can’t let this ‘appen, Athos. These…these are _people_. People of _France_! They’re…,” he kicked the empty bunk, toppling it to its side. “They are the fuckin’ reason we’re out here! They’re—“

“Porthos.” d’Artagnan’s low voice stopped his tirade in its tracks. “We’re not letting that happen.”

“The General’s orders—“

“Who do you take me for, Porthos?” Athos asked softly, his head lowered as Jon-Luc finished wrapping his arm. The young medic held a mug of something toward his Captain and Athos took it, but didn’t drink. “Do you know where we are?”

Porthos drew his head back. “Are we talking…literally or figuratively?”

Athos offered up a small smile. “Five miles to the west is Le Havre,” he said, resting his forearm on his knee and lowering his head, exhaustion giving a long, lusty pull on his will. “And I happen to be well acquainted with the owner of a rather vast estate located in Le Havre.”

Suddenly, Porthos’ shoulder gave a phantom twinge of pain and he vividly recalled the moment they discovered Athos’ true past as the Comte de le Fѐre.

“We move them to your lands,” he whispered.

“We move them to my lands,” Athos nodded. “The General’s needs are met, and our souls are spared.”

“How long until the General wants to move the men?” d’Artagnan asked, dropping his fist from his mouth and lifting his chin, his eyes darting back and forth in thought.

“We have two days,” Athos sighed.

“ _You_ don’t,” Jon-Luc spoke up suddenly, startling them all. “You do much more than rest…and I can’t guarantee you’ll recover. You need to lower that fever.”

Athos frowned. “I will not ask my men to do something I am not willing to do myself,” he snapped at Jon-Luc and Porthos almost felt sorry for the young medic.

“You ain’t,” Porthos stepped forward, relieved when d’Artagnan matched him one second later. “We’re volunteering.”

“Porthos—“

“Athos, he’s right,” d’Artagnan interrupted. “You’re sick. You need rest. We’ve got this.” Athos glowered at the younger man and d’Artagnan tilted his head, a small smile softening his features. “Head over heart, yes?”

Athos lifted his chin, a scowl turning his lips down. “That should only apply to you.”

“We’ll take a couple men,” Porthos strategized. “d’Artagnan, myself, Bauer, Mathieu—“

“I’ll go,” Bastien spoke up.

d’Artagnan was already shaking his head when Porthos spoke up. “We are going to need someone here to help Athos buy more time.”

“But, Jon-Luc can—“

“He’s a medic,” d’Artagnan broke in. “No offence, but the General is more likely to listen to one of his soldiers.”

“If then,” Porthos huffed.

Bastien opened his mouth once more and d’Artagnan stepped forward, resting a hand on the young Parisian’s shoulders. “Your time will come and your value recognized. Trust me when I say this; I know firsthand how much you want to be part of this, but you’re needed here. More than you know.”

“You both seem to think I will simply allow you to leave without me,” Athos spoke up, clearly unaware of how thin his voice sounded or how pale he appeared.

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged a look. “We do,” they replied in unison.

d’Artagnan crouched in front of his mentor. “Rest, Athos. Please. You would ask the same of me.”

Athos stared hard at d’Artagnan. “You remember what I said to you before your first battle?” he asked.

“You told me you would not allow me to die,” d’Artagnan immediately responded.

Athos nodded. “I meant it.”

d’Artagnan smiled, glancing down, but didn’t reply. He stood without looking at Athos again and stepped from the confines of the tent, missing the look of fear that swept Athos’ expression. Porthos stepped forward, resting a heavy hand on Athos’ shoulder.

“I’ll watch out for ‘im,” Porthos promised.

“Oh?” Athos replied, his voice cracking across the sound. “And who’ll watch out for you?”

Porthos tipped his head. “You’re right. I’ll get Bauer to watch out for ‘im.”

Athos chuckled appreciatively at Porthos’ attempt at levity.

“Rest, Athos,” Porthos implored. He could feel the heat from the man’s skin through his shirt. “We won’t let you down.”

As he stepped from the tent, he heard Athos’ whispered, “That was never a possibility.”

d’Artagnan was already half-way to Bauer and Mathieu’s tent, his head down, his walk quick but casual. Still, even then Porthos saw Bauer rise to his feet at d’Artagnan’s approach, his rugged face registering that something was amiss. Porthos moved quickly to flank his younger friend, listening as d’Artagnan explained the situation. To their credit, the two older Musketeers needed very little by way of justification. Mathieu informed them that he’d gather the horses, and would meet them at the edge of camp.

Porthos led the others to the weapons cache, stripping his battle armor as he did so.

“Aramis would’ve loved this,” he said quietly to d’Artagnan, not caring if Bauer heard him.

“He would,” d’Artagnan agreed. “Just the thing to balance the death we’ve delivered.”

Porthos frowned at the darkness he heard in the edges of his friend’s voice, but before he could comment, Mathieu rode up leading three saddled mounts. Weapons gathered, the four former Musketeers stopped briefly at the mess tent to grab provisions, citing special assignment, and encouraging those who questioned them to seek out Captain Athos. They rode toward where Athos had indicated the tenement camp would be, keeping watchful eyes for the Spanish.

The rolling planes of the French countryside—broken up by the occasional walled field, now abandoned, and copse of trees, well inspected for lurking enemy—lulled the men into an almost relaxed posture as they rode. The air was hot, the breeze non-existent except for their forward motion, but the lack of bodies—and most especially flies—was such an immense relief, Porthos thought he saw even the taciturn Mathieu smile at one point.

Not wanting to think too long about how damn good it felt to be riding free with his brothers—some of them, anyway—by his side, Porthos concentrated on what they would do when they reached the tenement camp, how they would round up the people, how they could get them to move five miles in two days…. It was not going to be easy.

“How bad of a soldier does it make me if I say this is the best I’ve felt since we joined the war?” d’Artagnan said as they slowed their mounts to a walk, needing them rested in the oppressive heat.

Porthos chuckled. “I know ‘ow you feel.”

“I do miss being a Musketeer,” Bauer confessed, resting a hand on his sword and rotating his shoulder as if testing the weight of his pauldron. “Might even miss the damned Red Guard a bit.”

“I keep thinking ‘ow great it’d be if the lack of Musketeers in Paris convinced the King to get rid of the Red Guard,” Porthos confessed. “We return ‘eroes with our only worry to keep the King safe on ‘is blasted ‘unting trips.”

“His Majesty will never get rid of the Red Guard,” Mathieu sighed expressively. “They originated with the Cardinal, and Louis is nothing if not nostalgic.”

Porthos glanced down the line of horses at the gray-haired swordsman. “Why you gotta shoot ‘oles in all my plans, eh?” he good-naturedly grumbled. “You’re gonna make me nervous.”

“Think we’ll reach the camp by nightfall?” d’Artagnan asked, taking a long pull on his waterskin.

The sun beat down, making Porthos glad for the shade of his hat. d’Artagnan’s olive-toned skin was darkening before his eyes, his cheeks and forehead reddening with sunburn. One of these days, the whelp would find himself a hat, the swarthy man reasoned.

“Should,” Bauer nodded. “Trick then is to convince them all to go with us.”

“Giving them advanced warning of an invading Spanish army should do the trick,” Porthos reasoned.

d’Artagnan glanced at him. “We don’t know the Spanish will invade.”

Porthos grinned, gathering up his reins. “Yes, well…neither do they.” He kicked his horse into a canter, listening as the other three joined him.

As predicted, they saw the camp in the distance just as the sun’s rays turned the dried grass of the planes to gold. Porthos could smell cooking meat and the lye soap of the laundry from a distance. As they drew closer, the scents of livestock and people washed the gunpowder and blood from their memories. The men were greeted with caution as they dismounted at the edge of the camp, hands up in supplication.

In what felt like a silent agreement, the men let d’Artagnan step forward, his low voice a balm for the suddenly anxious people. Porthos scanned the small group of refugees with dismay—women, mostly, and children. Several babies. Only a few men too old to pick up arms and fight for the King. These were the people the General had no qualms eliminating. These people of France—the _King’s_ people.

He seethed silently as d’Artagnan wove their story of Spanish invaders and a safe haven in Le Havre. The people bought it and with instructions that they would move out at first light, the men were invited to bed down in one of the tents, the family who’d lived there having joined their neighbors. Porthos knew the men were reluctant to take anything from these people, but he also knew the point of pride it was to be able to offer something, even the smallest of meals.

With a smile and nod of thanks, he took the proffered bowl of stew and sat next to d’Artagnan at their borrowed fire.

“You’re almost as good as Aramis when it comes to puttin’ people at ease,” he commented as the young Gascon stared into the flames.

d’Artagnan blinked in surprise, glancing askance at Porthos, clearly unsure what to do with the praise. “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself admitting that,” he teased.

“’m serious, now,” Porthos cleaned the last of the stew from his bowl and stretched out, leaning back against a tree stump. “You’re good with the younger soldiers, too. Take Bastien, for instance. Boy looks to you like you look to Athos.”

d’Artagnan simply shook his dark head, ducking until his eyes no longer glittered with firelight.

“I’ve seen it, too,” Bauer spoke up. “You’re a natural leader, d’Artagnan. You shouldn’t be ashamed of that.”

“Why does it feel as though you’re all about to push me off a cliff?” d’Artagnan mumbled.

Porthos chuckled. “Where’s the trust?”

“When this war is over,” Mathieu spoke up, surprising the rest, “we all must have a place in the world again. A purpose.”

“You mean…besides being a Musketeer?” d’Artagnan asked.

“We don’t know if there will be Musketeers in the King’s France after this war is over,” Mathieu speculated. “What will become of a man who only knows the sword?”

The men were quiet a moment, contemplating.

“I am the son of a farmer,” d’Artagnan reminded them. “I could farm.”

“I grew up slinging fish at the docks,” Bauer revealed.

“I could…,” Porthos grinned, playing along, his eyes dancing between the men around the fire, “pick your pockets.”

d’Artagnan bounced his elbow off Porthos’ arm. “Or travel the rooftops of Paris?”

Porthos chuckled. “Or take your coin in a card game.”

“Who says we’ll all survive this war?” Bauer mused, stirring the hot coals of the fire to rekindle the flame.

“Well, ain’t you the cheery one?” Porthos muttered.

“We push forward, they push forward; we kill, they kill,” Bauer sighed, his blue eyes shadowed by the dance of flame. “It’s an endless cycle. Only the dead will see the end of war.”

There was quiet among the group. It slipped from their circle and swept the small camp of people they’d been sent to rescue. The night seemed to grow around them—crickets, frogs, the sound of an owl perched high above them in a tree, the crackle of the fires, the whimper of a child. There were no voices, nothing to disturb the near-silence of a reality too great to contemplate.

“I want to learn to dance,” d’Artagnan said suddenly, bringing their eyes to him. He glanced back across the fire and Porthos saw the challenge in his eyes. “I was married all of three days before I left for war,” he reminded them, “and I’ve _no_ idea if my wife can dance.”

Bauer chuckled appreciatively. “Well, that is something to live for right there.”

“You planning to give us a show, then?” Porthos asked.

“Maybe,” d’Artagnan grinned, the expression erasing years from his eyes.

“Well, hell,” Mathieu grunted, settling back against the ground, his hat tipped over his eyes. “I’ll survive just to see that.”

As the men followed suit, setting down to grab a few hours of sleep, Porthos gave a brief thought to what this war would have been like for them had d’Artagnan not stormed into the garrison that fateful day. All too soon, however, he was ready to curse the young Gascon’s name as d’Artagnan kicked gently at his legs, waking him from his too-brief sleep.

“There are three wagons, two spare horses, and thirty people, total,” d’Artagnan informed him when he opened his eyes to blink blearily at the dawn.

“Good morning to you, too,” Porthos grumbled.

“If the General will be here in less than two days, we have to get moving,” d’Artagnan pointed out.

Pushing to his feet, Porthos stretched his arms over his head, feeling his shoulders and spine crack from resting on the hard ground. “Where’s everybody else?”

“Bauer went to scout the route,” d’Artagnan informed him. “Mathieu is helping to load the wagons.”

Porthos nodded. “Right, then. Lead on.”

In less than an hour, they had the thirty inhabitants of the camp loaded up, the youngest and oldest in the wagons, everyone else on foot. Bauer and Mathieu led the way based on Porthos’ directions, d’Artagnan took the middle, ensuring everyone kept moving forward and watching for moments they needed to take a break, and Porthos rode drag. The last thing they wanted was for someone to be left behind.

By mid-day, Porthos knew they weren’t going to make the haven at Le Havre by nightfall if they didn’t pick up the pace, but the people were spent. The heat alone wore them down, and with so many children, he was hard-pressed to insist they step up the pace. They’d stopped for a meal and to take water when Bauer came riding up from the south, flecks of sweaty foam speckling his horse’s dark flanks.

“A battalion,” Bauer gasped, taking the water skin d’Artagnan handed him and quenching his thirst. “A Spanish battalion, headed this way,” he reported.

“What?” Porthos exclaimed. “Any sign of our troops?”

Bauer shook his head, running the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. “If the General thought to use that camp as a stronghold, he miscalculated.”

“How long?” Mathieu demanded.

“A couple hours, maybe,” Bauer replied.

The four soldiers regarded the slowly moving parade of refugees. Packs of clothing and supplies were bundled on backs, or balanced on shoulders, children clung to weary arms. Two of the oldest among them had already passed out once from heat exhaustion, the shelter of a make-shift tent in one of the wagons their only refuge.

“We’re not leaving them,” Porthos declared.

“We push harder,” d’Artagnan declared. Swinging up on the back of his horse, he kicked the animal into a trot, catching the people’s attention. “All right, listen up!” he bellowed, riding the length of the refugee line as Athos did to rally the soldiers. “The Spanish are closer than we thought. I want all children and the old in wagons. Only carry what you can’t live without. Everyone who is walking will need to be able to run at a moment’s notice!”

The people murmured amongst themselves but hurried to do d’Artagnan’s bidding. Three of the soldiers dismounted, lifting two and three of the younger girls up on the backs of their horses, closing the ranks of the people as much as possible. Only Bauer stayed mounted, turning his horse to scout out the progress of the Spaniards.

They picked up the pace beneath the relentless sun. Porthos felt himself wilting in the heat and worried for the very old and the very young. The baby he’d heard crying not too long ago was now silent and he feared the worst. His waterskin was empty, but he didn’t dare go to the bucket for more; he had to save that for the people. They’d been displaced by a war they never asked for, dismissed by a General they never knew, and forgotten by their King.

They weren’t going to be abandoned by their Musketeers.

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan’s hand was on his arm, drawing his attention. He blinked, spots of sunlight dancing before his eyes.

“What…?”

“You were weaving—you all right?” d’Artagnan’s grip tightened.

“Jus’ hot,” Porthos replied. He peered at his young friend, noting that the Gascon’s sunburn had worsened. “You’re gonna burn up out here.”

“I’m okay,” d’Artagnan deflected. “I’m more used to the sun than you, it appears.”

“Easy to ‘ide from it on the streets,” Porthos agreed. Talking was reviving him. He glanced once more at d’Artagnan, but before he could say more, Bauer’s shout grabbed their attention.

“ _Move_!”

Instinctively, their hands reached for their swords. Bauer came into view, his horse near to dropping from exhaustion, the animal’s labored breathing audible even from this distance. Mathieu joined them, all staring hard at their approaching friend.

“The Spanish are just over the crest of that hill,” Bauer panted, slipping from the back of his trembling horse on shaking legs. “I counted twenty in all.”

“Twenty,” d’Artagnan breathed. “How far are we from Athos’ lands?”

Porthos shook his head. “Too far.”

They looked around, desperate. Porthos spied a grove of trees and a crumbling rock wall to the west. He pointed, and before he could issue the order, Bauer nodded and was shouting to the people to change course, head for the trees.

“Where are the barrels of gunpowder they had?” Mathieu asked.

“On the wagon with the elders,” d’Artagnan replied and took off in a sprint after the turning wagons.

In a blink, he was at the back of the line, swinging his lithe body into the moving wagon. Porthos and Mathieu did their best to keep up.

“You are insanely fast,” Porthos panted, catching one of the barrels as d’Artagnan tossed it down.

“Everyone has to have a skill,” he replied, the second barrel tucked up under his arm as he jumped from the wagon. Catching his breath, he squinted up at Mathieu. “What’er we doing with these?”

“We fight,” Mathieu replied darkly.

Bauer continued to herd their thirty charges toward the cover of trees while Porthos and Mathieu set up the barrels equi-distant from each other and between the approaching Spanish and the refugees. Unspooling the fuses, they joined d’Artagnan on the plain of dry, brittle grass, each adding a harquebus to their person, lifting it in one hand, their swords in the other.

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan said quietly as they readied for the approach of the Spanish. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Porthos didn’t dare glance away from the point Bauer had indicated the Spanish would arrive.

“For being my family when I had none.”

At that Porthos did look over at the younger man. He wanted to grin, to knock off a cheeky retort, to hug the lad to him and run for cover. But emotion welled in him so vast it rendered any words useless. d’Artagnan didn’t look back at him; his eyes were on the horizon which was just now painted with the encroaching shadow of twenty approaching Spanish soldiers. Turning back to the threat, Porthos tried to take a deep breath and found his lungs deflated.

“This ain’t gonna work,” he muttered, eyes darting between the barrels of gunpowder. He began to back up, watching as Mathieu and d’Artagnan followed him.

“I’m open to ideas,” Mathieu retorted.

“I’m leaning toward blind panic,” d’Artagnan quipped, glancing hurriedly aside at the other two. “You?”

“We need to separate them,” Porthos said. “Scatter them. The barrels,” he pointed as the Spanish moved closer, “we need to move them further out—“

“I got it,” d’Artagnan slid the harquebus into his weapons belt and began to move toward one of the gunpowder barrels, ducking low when a shot was fired toward him.

Porthos fired back, keeping his eyes on d’Artagnan as the younger man carried the barrel closer to the Spanish, lighting the fuse with his flint stone and running back toward them, out of the way of the blast, all legs and arms and _hurry_. The blast sent the three former Musketeers to the ground and Mathieu shouted at d’Artagnan to _run_.

Reloading quickly, Porthos fired through the resulting smoke as Mathieu ran toward the second fuse. d’Artagnan reached him, sunburned face covered in streaks of soot and sweat, turning toward the approaching Spanish.

“Oh, no,” d’Artagnan breathed.

Porthos tore his eyes from his young friend to look toward the Spanish and felt his heart plummet. The blast had indeed been effective at scattering the twenty soldiers…but it had also sparked a brush fire in the open plain. The flames spread out, eating up the low crest of the shallow hill where the two men stood, fueled by the acres of dried summer grasses.

“Where’s Mathieu?” d’Artagnan bellowed as Porthos counted eight Spaniards break past the flames before the second explosion shook the ground around them.

Porthos had lost sight of their silver-haired companion—and of Bauer and the refugees. All he could see now were flames eagerly cutting them off from the rest of the Spanish, as well as from the protection of trees and any hope of escape. Holding the high ground as they were, Porthos and d’Artagnan were surrounded by a near-circle of flame, eight of the enemy climbing toward them.

“Porthos….” d’Artagnan’s voice shook slightly, and the older man felt his young companion’s narrow shoulder bump against his back as they squared off, preparing for the fight.

“Take it easy, lad,” Porthos soothed, spinning his schianova in one hand and pulling the hammer back of his harquebus in the other. “We’ve got this under control.”

“Oh really?” d’Artagnan scoffed. “Is that why everything is on fire?”

Porthos tipped his head in concession. “It may be time for a Plan B.”

“We have a Plan B?” d’Artagnan exclaimed.

“No…but it may be time for one. Look, it cut down their number,” Porthos pointed out, having to shout a bit to be heard over the growing snap and roar of the flames. “Now there’s only eight.”

“Only.”

Porthos shifted until he felt d’Artagnan at his back, shoulder against shoulder, the younger man’s lithe form not fully covering him, but his sword lethal enough.

“Keep moving, d’Artagnan,” Porthos advised. “And stay away from the fire.”

“ _That’s_ your great advice? Don’t get burned?”

Porthos felt d’Artagnan’s arm shift as the lad pulled back the hammer of his harquebus. The Spanish soldiers crested the low hill, their surprise at finding only two French on the other side of the flame evident. Porthos felt a strange energy slide through the air, as though the land took a breath. Then the flames at the base of the hill crested, twisting around themselves in a cyclone of heat and fury.

d’Artagnan shattered the moment with a shot, one of the Spanish soldiers crumpling with a blossom of red where his face used to be. Porthos lost track of time after that. He simply moved. He was able to fire point-blank at his first attacker and after that, the harquebus became a club and then was lost in the melee as he blocked, parried, and sliced his way through two more of the enemy.

After only a few moments of battle, Porthos lost the feel of d’Artagnan at his back, unable to keep track of the lad and maintain the necessary focus required to stay alive. One especially large Spaniard swiped at Porthos’ legs and his retaliating blow nearly severed the man’s head from his shoulders, sending hot, sticky blood all over Porthos’ face and torso.

Gasping for breath as he turned to find the others, he spied d’Artagnan battling two at once, a spear that he must have appropriated from one of the fallen in one hand, his rapier in the other, sweat and blood causing his hair to stick to his face in dark strands. Porthos blocked another hit just as he heard d’Artagnan cry out. He whipped his head to the side to see the young Gascon fall to a knee, one hand momentarily weaponless as he clutched his now-bloody thigh. Growling, Porthos began to move toward his friend when lightning seemed to strike him in the side, throwing him backwards against the ground.

It took him several moments of gasping for air to realize that it hadn’t been lighting; it had been a spear. A Spanish spear, punctured his flank and effectively pinned him to the ground.

Heat swept through him, clean in its ferocity. He cried out, unable to help himself, as he reached shaking hands for the weapon. He could feel the slickness of his own blood coating his bare fingers, feel the thrum of agony racing through his system, feel his lungs shudder and shrivel up inside him.

“ _No_!”

Porthos rolled his head to the side, his movements stilted, drunken, and clumsy with weakness and pain. He saw d’Artagnan push to his feet, grabbing up one of the enemy’s swords as he did so, his face terrible with rage as he saw Porthos on the ground. As the world slid away from him, sucking everything solid and real into a strange mist at the corners of his vision, Porthos watched his friend _become_ fury.

d’Artagnan took Porthos’ advice to heart: he never stopped moving. The Gascon stabbed and sliced, turning and twisting to avoid the hits, roaring like the Devil himself had slipped beneath his skin. With a strange, detached horror, Porthos watched as d’Artagnan speared a soldier with his rapier and pushed the man backwards toward the encroaching flames. He didn’t stop until the man was screaming as the fire took him.

Porthos groaned as pain rocked through him, turning his gut to ice, his heart slamming hard against his chest. He couldn’t move, his hands slick with blood against the spear. d’Artagnan turned toward him, his face, hands, arms, leg covered in blood—not all of it his own—his expression so dark Porthos wanted to shrink from him.

One of the soldiers they’d thought defeated rose up behind the Gascon, but Porthos found he lacked the air to shout out a warning.

In that moment, a shriek of equine fear slashed the rapidly shrinking clearing. Porthos turned his head to see Athos’ dark mount and Bauer’s white one leap through the fire. Bauer rode straight for d’Artagnan and Porthos gaped in wonder as Athos slid off his horse and knelt beside Porthos.

“You’re ‘ere,” Porthos gasped.

“Couldn’t let you two get all the praise and glory,” Athos replied, his eyes scanning Porthos’ frame.

“Your arm?”

“A little battered, but otherwise serviceable,” Athos said, finally resting his hands over where Porthos gripped the spear.

“It’s through me,” Porthos gasped, unable to get his words much above a whisper.

“Yes, you’ve done quite a number on yourself,” Athos frowned, his voice deceptively calm, his eyes holding a fear Porthos had seen before: when he felt death encroaching.

Porthos pinned his gaze to the other man’s face, seeking strength there as he felt it rapidly leaving him. Athos looked up and across Porthos’ body—no doubt toward where d’Artagnan was.

“Is ‘e alive?” Porthos whispered.

“He is,” Athos nodded, then looked down. “We need to move you, Porthos. The flames are getting close.”

He could hear it, the fire. It sounded like laughter, making him shudder. He closed his eyes against the relentless heat of the sun. Mixed with the fire inside and out, Porthos was fairly certain he would burn alive before Athos could do a thing to save him.

“Bauer!” He heard something that sounded like stretched leather snapping when Athos shouted. Maybe that was the sound of panic, he wasn’t sure. But he didn’t like it. “I need your help!”

“Porthos.”

He opened his eyes at that voice; he realized now that he’d been listening for it. Blinking up, Porthos saw that d’Artagnan’s dark head was blocking the glare of the sun, his face battered and bloody, but his eyes alive.

“You…you did…well,” Porthos told him, reaching up to grasp the Gascon’s hand, unable to stop his from trembling. d’Artagnan gripped him tightly, bracing him. “You…m-made me p-proud, boy.”

Something broke across d’Artagnan’s face. It was just as Bastien had described: something precious shattering. Porthos never wanted to see it again.

“He’s pinned,” he heard Athos say and realized that Bauer was close, too. “We need to break off the end and lift him.”

“This is going to hurt,” Bauer muttered.

“Stop t-talking about it…’nd just do it,” Porthos growled, closing his eyes.

He wished Aramis were there. He wished he hadn’t said what he had when he’d ridden away from Douai. He wished he had more time.

“d’Artagnan, hold him,” Athos ordered.

Porthos felt the heat from the flames licking his face. He could hear them, crackling and dancing closer. He didn’t want to burn.

“You’re not going to burn, Porthos,” d’Artagnan told him. Porthos felt the Gascon’s hand gripping his, felt d’Artagnan’s hand at his face. “Look at me.” He obeyed, the edges of his friend’s face melting a bit in the heat. “You’re too _fierce_ to die.”

“N-not sure that’s true, l-lad,” Porthos gasped, crying out in agony as the spear shifted inside him, the pain intense. He knew then that Athos and Bauer had broken off the end, shortening the shaft.

“Then you _make_ it true,” d’Artagnan snapped and pinning Porthos with his dark eyes. “You _refuse_ to die. Just as you made me. Do you remember?”

Porthos nodded.

“Say it,” d’Artagnan ordered.

“I r-refuse to d-die,” he declared.

“We’re going to lift you now,” Athos told him. “And then we’re getting the hell out of here.”

Porthos didn’t know how they were going to get free of the fire; it seemed to be everywhere. The world was burning. But if Athos said it was true, then he believed him. He kept his eyes on d’Artagnan, bracing himself for the pain.

Nothing could have prepared him for the total and complete anguish that tore through him as his friends lifted him off of the spear. The world melted from the sound of his scream and then all Porthos knew was darkness.

It was dark for a long time.

He thought it was strange, when next he opened his eyes, that he felt that length of time. That it wasn’t like falling asleep and waking in the morning. This time the darkness had substance, weight. It had felt like a warning, a consequence. It had felt like hell: separation from everything and everyone in his life he loved.

The first person he saw when he woke was Athos. Which didn’t surprise him. The older man was staring at him with calculating blue eyes as though he had a personal wager on when Porthos would wake.

“So,” Athos sat forward, resting his forearms on his knees, “that went well.”

No _how are you feeling_ , no _you scared us a bit_ , and for that, Porthos was thankful. He smiled, his lips dry enough to split with the motion. Athos drew a cup forward and eased his head up so that he could drink.

“Where are we?” Porthos rasped, feeling brave enough to look around a bit.

He started in surprise to find himself in what appeared to be a tent—not as noisy or crowded as the field medic, and lacking that underlying hum of buzzing flies—lying on a cot rather than the ground. He started again when he saw d’Artagnan sleeping on a cot not far from his, one leg propped up on what looked like a pile of quilts, his thigh wrapped tightly.

“What’s the last you remember?” Athos asked in lieu of an answer.

“The fire,” Porthos replied, swallowing. “And you pulling me off the spear.”

Athos sat back. “That was three days ago,” he informed him, watching with those same calculating eyes as Porthos absorbed this information. “We are at the new encampment at Le Havre.”

“The…the people?”

“All safely accounted for,” Athos smiled. “They even had a doctor among them.”

Porthos closed his eyes, letting relief settle around his heart. “’at’s good to know.”

“Yes, quite,” Athos nodded, helping Porthos drink again. “Especially as it seems you were intent on disobeying a direct order.”

“I what, now?” Porthos blinked, instinctively attempting to sit forward when he was suddenly and violently reminded that he’d had a spear pinning him to the ground three days ago. He groaned, pressing a hand to the bandage at his side, and rested back against the pillows.

“I believe I ordered you not to die,” Athos reminded him.

Porthos narrowed his eyes, trying very hard not to move any more than was necessary. “You ordered _d’Artagnan_ not to die,” he corrected.

Athos sighed, lifting his eyes to the other cot. “Yes, well. He barely followed that order as well, so I should write you both up.”

“’e okay?” Porthos asked, turning his head once more to regard the slim Gascon. d’Artagnan slept with his face turned away, but Porthos could see his chest rise and fall.

“He will be,” Athos assured him. “He let a Spanish sword get too close to him. It’s _you_ that’s had me saying prayers I’d thought I’d forgotten.”

At the mention of prayers, Porthos frowned. The last time he’d been wounded this badly, Aramis had been there to greet him when he woke.

“You asked for Aramis,” Athos revealed. “Quite a lot, actually.”

Porthos looked away. “Don’t mean nothin’.”

“Except that Aramis has been your balance for many years, through many battles, and he wasn’t here.”

Porthos swallowed. “’cept for that.”

They were both quiet for a long enough stretch of time that Porthos began to feel self-conscious.

“The fire was an interesting choice,” Athos finally said.

Porthos huffed, then winced when the motion pulled at his side. “Weren’t on purpose.”

“Is that right?”

Porthos noted that Athos kept his tone mild, his eyebrows up as though he were simply curious, not that he had the answers he needed already and was simply allowing Porthos a moment to talk through what had happened.

“Thought I was going to burn before I ‘ad a chance to bleed to death,” Porthos confessed, “then you show up. Riding through them flames like some kind of…avenging angel.”

“Hardly,” Athos scoffed.

Watching Porthos carefully, as though weighing the impact of each word, Athos proceeded to tell him how the moment his fever broke he’d ordered Bastien to wait an hour before informing the General of his departure, and he rode out toward Le Havre, intending on assisting with the resettlement before the French troops moved in. Instead, he found dead Spaniards, a field on fire, and the sound of death screaming at him from inside the flames.

He’d found Bauer first, who’d gotten the refugees to safety with Mathieu battling a few of the Spanish who’d not been killed by the initial blasts. After posting Mathieu as a look-out, they’d braved the fire to find Porthos speared to the ground and d’Artagnan standing, blood-covered, in a sea of bodies.

“I thought I’d felt fear before that moment, but I was wrong,” Athos confessed. “It was the single most terrifying ten seconds of my life.”

“The General?” Porthos asked, feeling fatigue pulling at him.

“We got you and d’Artagnan free of the fire—you were both bleeding all over. d’Artagnan lasted longer than you, my friend, but by the time we reached the encampment, you were both unconscious.” Athos swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck as he remembered. “The physician revealed himself almost right away. We were able to treat d’Artagnan ourselves, but you….”

Porthos frowned, when Athos’ voice tapered off, emotion making it tight. “’m still ‘ere, Athos.”

The side of Athos’ mouth pulled up in a relieved smile. “Indeed, you are. You will be weak for some time. The spear went through your muscle, luckily missing vital organs, and you fought off infection, but you lost a lot of blood.”

“So…no joinin’ the ranks right off, yeah?”

“The General has moved the men to the encampment,” Athos sighed, sitting back. “He saw the burned-out field littered with remains of possessions and wagons that Bauer couldn’t salvage and…he assumed we’d done as he asked.”

“’pose that’s a good thing,” Porthos muttered, groaning a bit as he shifted again, Athos reaching over to help him sit up a bit. “Won’t be looking for ‘em now, will ‘e?”

Athos shook his head. “No, he won’t.”

“Porthos?”

He looked over to see d’Artagnan blinking himself awake, slowly swinging his leg off the pile of quilts so that he could sit up and face the swarthy man. Porthos saw that the sun had turned the Gascon’s skin a darker brown, leaving peeling blisters across his forehead and cheeks. Other than that, and the bandage on his leg, d’Artagnan appeared unscathed.

Then Porthos got a closer look at the lad’s eyes. There were shadows in them that hadn’t been there before, a darkness where previously none existed.

“Nappin’ are ya?” Porthos teased. “I’m out of it for a little while and everybody decides to take a ‘oliday.”

d’Artagnan grinned, spearing light through his eyes for a brief moment and Porthos was at once, painfully, reminded of Aramis. Something had happened to d’Artagnan in that fight, something that had marked him. The innocence that had once been such an integral part of what made their Gascon who he was had been battered and bruised in this last battle.

“You scared me,” d’Artagnan confessed, filling in the gaps that Athos had left from his greeting. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I been put on a spit and roasted over a fire,” Porthos replied truthfully. This time the smile didn’t quite reach d’Artagnan’s eyes. “You been here with me the whole time?”

“He was not allowed to leave your side,” Athos informed him. “A direct order from his Captain.”

“I wouldn’t have left anyway,” d’Artagnan revealed, limping over to Porthos’ cot and easing himself down on the edge, his wounded leg outstretched. “You…uh,” he glanced down at his hands. “You called for Aramis so much…for a little bit there, I actually thought he might show up.”

Porthos shifted uncomfortably. “Every other time I been ‘urt, Aramis’ been there,” he said. “Guess…guess I kind of forgot.”

d’Artagnan nodded, then looked up at the two men. “I did what you said, Porthos,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble of wounded sound. “I kept moving.”

Porthos was struck by the memory of seeing d’Artagnan cut through five Spanish soldiers like a man possessed, remembering Bastien’s description of his ferocity in battle when their young friend had been threatened. As d’Artagnan regarded at the older man, seeming to seek a kind of soldier’s absolution, Porthos was struck by the emotion shimmering from the younger man.

Aramis had eyes that could carve words into another’s skin; Porthos had always thought that was part of what drew people to him. The look in d’Artagnan’s eyes now put Aramis to shame; they could easily cut deep enough to kill. He knew d’Artagnan was spiraling and it was on them—he and Athos—to anchor him or lose him.

“You acted as a soldier, d’Artagnan,” Athos replied. “You protected your brother; you did your duty.”

But d’Artagnan wasn’t looking at Athos this time. His eyes stuck to Porthos. Because it had been _Porthos_ who had seen, who knew the extent of what he’d done.

“You were fierce,” Porthos told him. He offered him a half-grin. “You saved my ass, d’Artagnan. And it’s an ass worthy of saving.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, d’Artagnan laughed. It was a broken thing, but it was still a laugh…until it shattered and collected into sobs. Porthos found himself reaching gingerly forward, his hand at the back of d’Artagnan’s neck, pulling the younger man toward him so that his face pressed against Porthos’ shoulder, the contact steadying, necessary, welcomed.

Athos sat quietly, watching over them until d’Artagnan was able to gather himself, his emotions once more in check. He sat up, brushing the tears away. Without another word, d’Artagnan stood and limped toward the opening flap of the tent, letting in a slash of sunlight and heat as he made his way into the camp. Porthos heard Athos echo the breath he drew in and the two men regarded each other.

“He’ll be fine,” Athos stated.

“I know.”

“And so will you,” Athos continued, leaving no room for argument.

Porthos looked down. “I know.” He waited a few heartbeats, then, “This war will scar us, Athos. In ways no one will see but us.”

Athos leaned forward and rested a warm hand on Porthos’ forearm. “We will be stronger for it.”

Porthos nodded, holding his wounded side, and thought of the darkness he’d seen in d’Artagnan’s eyes.

“I ‘ope you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** Thank you for reading. A bridge taking us to the present day, and then we’ll hear from Aramis.


	5. Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. Caution for images of war and all that comes with it.

“You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.” – Hemingway

**

**Chapter 5: Bridge**

“It was another week before he could ride back to camp,” d’Artagnan spoke up from behind her, startling them all out of the quiet that had descended when Porthos finished his story.

Now that she was aware of his presence, Constance felt d’Artagnan’s closeness at her back, and watched as three sets of eyes darted up to his face in surprise.

“By then,” d’Artagnan continued, sinking down on the bench next to her, his hip brushing hers like an invitation, “we were on the move.”

At this, she glanced at him. “What, again? After the General forced those people to leave?”

“Never try to apply logic to the decisions of madmen, Constance,” Athos cautioned. “It will drive you insane.”

“’ow long you been standin’ there?” Porthos asked, his dark eyes looking past Constance to her husband.

“Long enough,” d’Artagnan replied evasively.

“Here we thought you were going to sleep the day away,” Aramis teased, his grin a peace offering.

d’Artagnan smiled softly. “The room got cold,” he said. “And who knows what trouble you lot would get into without me watching your backs.”

Porthos chuckled. “So that’s ‘ow it is, yeah?”

Serge appeared with a bowl of stew and set it and a wine goblet in front of d’Artagnan, pausing to rest a hand on the young Gascon’s shoulder before moving away.

“He missed you,” Constance said quietly, watching Serge return to his kitchens. “All of you.” Her gaze went distant and she sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of responsibility that had been hers alone while they were away pressing upon her once more. “And Treville.”

“Has it been hard with him away?” Athos asked, his voice mild, solicitous, but his eyes sharp, calculating.

Constance was unable to shake the sense that Athos’ next move would be based on her answer.

“Treville has been the only light in what has become a very dark time for Paris,” Constance said, her voice pitched low so that only the four men near her would hear. “Governor Feron—half-brother of the King—has turned the Red Guard into a legion of terror, helmed by the insufferable Captain Marcheaux.” She heard the snarl in her voice as she spat the man’s name and felt d’Artagnan tense beside her in reaction to her tone.

“I hate him already,” Aramis commented.

“He is a bigoted, vain, cruel, coward,” Constance said, meeting Aramis’ eyes.

“Has he hurt you?” d’Artagnan asked, the threat in his low voice rippling through the three other men, causing them to visibly straighten at the thought.

“No,” Constance hastened to assure her husband, resting a hand on his arm and feeling the muscles corded there as d’Artagnan curled his hand into a fist. “Just made it almost impossible to do my job—keep the cadets fed, keep the people of Paris safe. _All_ people.”

She glanced at Porthos. “Your story about the refugees…not that big of a surprise, to be honest.”

Porthos frowned. “What d’you mean?”

Constance swept her gaze across the concerned looks of all four men watching her, waiting for news of the Paris they’d left, the home they’d returned to. She realized then that Treville had called them back from the front to fight a different war. They weren’t _home_ …they were simply reassigned.

“People have been displaced all over the country,” Constance said, watching them nod in agreement and remembrance, “and most are flocking to Paris. But the city isn’t equipped to deal with this many hungry, homeless souls. There’s not enough food or space to go around. So,” she turned her hands up in a shrug as if to say _what can you do_ , “the refugees built their own refuge…sort of like temporary Courts of Miracles. They have barricades and encampments in and around the city.”

“That can’t have been easy to protect,” Athos murmured.

Constance shook her head. “With you all at the front, the Musketeers are all cadets. Young, untrained, inexperienced. They were in no position to protect those people. And Feron saw an opening.”

“Martial law, courtesy of the Red Guard,” Aramis practically growled.

“Exactly,” Constance sighed. “I’m just...,” she looked up at d’Artagnan and saw that he wasn’t looking at her, but at something too far away for anyone else to see. His gaze didn’t stray back to her when she continued, either, causing worry to spike in her heart. “I know it’s not the Paris you left. It seems none of us are the same as we were four years ago,” she glanced pointedly at Athos, accepting his earlier message. “But I am so _very_ glad you’re back.”

Porthos, who sat closest to her aside from d’Artagnan, rested a big hand on her shoulder, his smile one of gratitude. They sat for a moment, lost in thought. Constance watched as d’Artagnan twisted the empty goblet in a loose grip, Athos spun his bowl on the table, Porthos tied and untied his head scarf, and Aramis worried the cross still hanging about his neck. They were restless; she could feel the nervous energy shimmering around them.

It was as though they didn’t know what to do with themselves when they weren’t preparing for war. And she wasn’t about to turn them loose on Paris—and Marcheaux—with this coiled energy humming around them. Someone would end up dead or jailed, and she’d only gotten them back.

“Would you like to tour the garrison?” she asked, startling d’Artagnan from his reverie next to her. “I mean, it _has_ changed a bit since you were last here…and we’ll need to find you quarters. Can’t have you all bunking in Treville’s rooms forever.”

As one, the four men pushed away from the table and stood, clearly eager to have something else to focus on. She started at the armory, showing how they’d reorganized to accommodate for the lack of weapons, then led them to the livery, watching d’Artagnan closely as he scanned the scarce stock, reaching up to rub at the ears of some familiar equine faces. Moving toward the courtyard practice area currently populated with cadets, Constance took the opportunity to observe each man.

There was an ease to the way Porthos and d’Artagnan moved around each other—a familiarity that had not been present when they left her four years ago. The bigger man kept the young Gascon in his eye line, visibly tensing when d’Artagnan moved out of sight. For his part, d’Artagnan made a clearly conscious effort to stay close, though he didn’t make a thing of it. The brotherly affection was apparent between them.

As for Athos, he seemed somewhat unchanged in the way he held himself slightly apart from the group. However, there was a warmth in his eyes when d’Artagnan was purposefully cheeky about assigning quarters in the garrison, and an affection in the way he helped Porthos keep an eye on the ever-mobile Gascon. He was relaxed, she realized. More than she’d ever observed in this man she’d known longer than the rest.

Aramis, however, moved with a sort of stilted hesitancy. The graceful fluidity that had always caught her eye was gone and in its place was an uncertain caution—his smiles almost a request for acceptance. Despite the horrors she was learning the other three experienced in the yawn of years since she’d seen them, it was Aramis who was breaking her heart.

She has no idea how to approach it—or him. There didn’t seem to be a natural break in the flow of conversation to simply ask Aramis how his time at the Monastery had been…and something told her that Porthos—and perhaps even d’Artagnan—might not react quite well to hearing about it just yet.

Once everyone had a room—with Athos staying in Treville’s old quarters as the garrison’s new Captain, and d’Artagnan settled in with Constance—the men made plans to visit some old haunts and get a meal. She had to tell them which taverns were still opened and which were overrun by Marcheaux and his Red Guard, but she was fairly certain the three former Inseparables could stay out of trouble for one night at least.

“You, Monsieur d’Artagnan, are coming with me,” Constance informed her husband, clasping a hand on his bicep and pulling d’Artagnan toward her.

“Is that an order?” d’Artagnan grinned brazenly at her. “You _are_ the mistress of the garrison after all.”

“If she needs to make it an order, you’re doin’ it wrong, lad,” Porthos teased and Aramis guffawed as the three men sauntered off through the garrison’s archway.

Constance felt the fire of anticipation heat her belly as d’Artagnan put his hand at the small of her back, escorting her toward their rooms. The night before had been a tangle of desperate touching, reassuring each other that they were _here_ they were _real._ She hadn’t had time, at that point, to process his return or absorb the fact that her husband was making love to her again after so long apart. It had been enough to feel his warmth and to affirm that he was no longer in danger.

But since then, she’d had a full day to think about it. And there was plenty a woman’s mind can conjure up in a day’s time. Enough so that by the time d’Artagnan closed their door behind him, Constance was practically shaking with the need to touch him once more.

She stood motionless in the center of the room, watching as he deliberately lit all four candles she kept on hand, and closed the wooden window shutter. With his back to her, d’Artagnan unstrapped his weapon’s belt and removed his jacket and boots. When he turned to face her once more, Constance saw something raw in his expression. He didn’t touch her, but she felt like his eyes lit her skin on fire.

As he watched, she silently slipped off the leather corset she wore as a status symbol, then untied her blouse and skirts so that they dropped into a puddle on the floor, leaving her in only her thin underclothes. d’Artagnan exhaled slowly, the breath stuttering across his teeth, his pupils disappearing within his dark eyes.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” Constance broke the fragile silence, her voice rough with desire, seeming to crest against d’Artagnan like a wave, making him visibly shudder. “Which means, I had a long time to imagine what it would be like to have your hands on me once again.”

“Is that so?” he replied, the low rumble of his voice slipping inside her and fanning the flame that liquefied her bones. “And what is it that you imagined?”

“Let me show you,” she whispered, reaching for him just as he lifted his hand toward her.

He was hot to the touch, raising gooseflesh across her skin as he stroked her bare arms, the curve of her backside, along the slope of her belly. Quicker than she was able to register, he removed his clothes and her underthings—tearing the delicate fabric of her pantaloons in his haste—then pressed her fully against him so that she could feel the hard planes of his body against the give of her flesh.

“I missed you,” he said softly. “Every day. Every _minute_.”

“Prove it,” she ordered.

He moved her toward the bed, catching them with one hand on the bedding as she tumbled backwards, then shifted her in his grip so that she was able to push herself across the bed, her head at right angles to the pillows. His mouth hovered over hers, their breath mingling, and Constance practically arched up into the space between them, desperate to feel those lips on hers once more.

d’Artagnan complied. The scruff of his jaw line grazed the soft skin around her mouth, but she drank him in, pressing close enough their teeth clicked. His tongue swept her mouth, slowing their rhythm until she could taste him once again, remember what it felt like to hold his weight against her, feel his breath on her face, his lips covering her mouth.

Four years gone and she still craved him like it was the first time.

Last night it had been about what he’d needed. What he was looking for. Tonight, Constance sought her own grounding, her own reminder that she was no longer alone. Throwing any pretense of caring about decorum and what was right and proper out the window, she wrapped her legs around him, arching back and pushing her hips up into his.

d’Artagnan groaned low in his throat, trailing kisses down her neck, along her collarbone, leaving a path of oversensitized skin in his wake as he worked his way lower. She remembered what it was he liked, how it made her come undone, rendering her senseless. She wasn’t ready for that just yet and grabbed his hair, pulling his face up from her chest.

“If I’m the mistress of the garrison,” she panted, taking in the sight of his kiss-swollen lips, “does that mean I get to be on top?”

His grin lit his eyes like she hadn’t seen since long before the war. “Sweetheart, you can do anything you want,” he whispered, pressing tight against her and bracing his hands on her hips.

Hooking a heel behind one of his knees, Constance turned them over on the bed, leaning forward and pressing his hands above his head. She kissed the scar next to his eye, trailing her lips down his cheekbone and to his lips, ghosting a kiss there before moving to his jawline and causing him to arch his neck. Moving down his chest, she kissed each scar she saw, trailing her hands along the ridges of muscle drawing the length of each arm, ending with a hand lightly pressed against his throat, her fingers tightening just slightly in a tease as she kissed his belly.

“Constance,” he groaned, bucking his hips up in a plea.

Straightening up, she straddled him and looked him directly in the eyes. “You are mine, Charles d’Artagnan,” she said in a low, serious voice. His eyes lit on hers, pulling her in, drawing the strength and heat from each word. “You will never want to leave me again.”

D’Artagnan grasped her hips, not taking his eyes from hers, and she saw his lips tremble with unspoken promises. She poised herself just above him, teasing him with anticipation, then without warning lowered herself until he was buried inside of her, filling her fully and causing him to arch his neck once more, a gasp of pure pleasure echoing through both of them.

She found she liked this position—the rush of power she felt from being in control, to watching him come apart beneath her sent her senses reeling. He groaned as he rocked up into her, clutching at her hips, his eyes falling closed as biology took over. She kept one hand at his throat, the other at his hip; one for balance, the other for control. When she felt him tense as though to turn them over, she pressed her fingers against his throat just slightly, feeling his pulse slam against the delicate skin there, and rocked her hips until he once more sprawled beneath her, at her mercy.

Only when she felt the shudder of his release did she focus on the heat in her belly, letting her body surrender to the thrill of their motion, finally allowing herself to fall forward, her hair spilling across them, her cheek against his chest, hearing the pounding of his heart as he slowly calmed down.

“What…,” he tried, swallowing roughly and forcing his voice out through his dry throat. “What else have you been imagining?”

She chuckled against his chest. “We have the rest of our lives to find that out, Charles.”

He stroked her hair away from her sweaty forehead, letting the curls wrap around his fingers. “I like it when you call me Charles,” he confessed. He kissed the top of her head, giving no indication he wanted her to move away from him. “And I _don’t_ ever want to leave you again.”

She shifted slightly, resting her chin on the back of her hand so that she could see his eyes. “You’ve done your time. We won’t let that happen.” A thought occurred to her. “In fact,” she grinned impishly, pleased when it was returned in kind, “let’s spend all day together tomorrow. Just you and me.”

“I’d like that,” he replied, his smile turning lustful.

She knew exactly where his mind had gone with that suggestion, but she had another idea. She’d seen Serge’s nearly bare storehouse; she hadn’t visited the grain house at Saint-Antoine in some time. It would be a good opportunity to show him the Paris she’d been trying to tell him about. Show him what she’d lived through without him near.

Her scars may not be visible, but they were no less real.

“First, however,” d’Artagnan teased, effortlessly flipping them over so that he was braced on top of her. “I get to show you what _I’ve_ been imagining all this time.”

She laughed in surprise and delight, the moment clouding briefly as her hands traced the long, thin scar that ran across his ribs, making her wonder at the stories she didn’t yet know. That night he slept on the bed, and she was quite pleased that she’d apparently worn him out beyond nightmares. She dressed the next morning in her garrison uniform, wandering into their bedroom when he groggily called her name.

She smiled at his lanky form—miles of skin on display to entice her back into bed—and informed him that she had a plan for the day. She tossed his shirt at him and jauntily marched outside to wait as he dressed. Nothing she told him of her time without him in Paris would come close to matching the horror he’d survived, but there was a part of her that wanted him to appreciate what she’d been through, how she’d adapted to this new world without anything _normal_ from their time before.

As they traveled through the streets of Paris toward the small refugee settlement of Saint-Antoine, he perched in the wagon behind her, tension slipping from him and soaking into her, making her second guess her actions. Feeling a bit justified in her efforts, Constance kept up a running dialog of what it had been like in Paris on a day-by-day basis while he was away. She painted as clear a picture she could muster, but felt her gloating deflate as they reached the gate of Saint-Antoine and saw the mob gathering there. Shouts of accusation speared the morning air; Constance frowned, puzzled, when she heard something about the grain houses being empty.

d’Artagnan was out of the back of the wagon and had his sword pulled before Constance registered the danger. The cadets she’d ordered to follow them so that they could bring back the food to the garrison stood wide-eyed, staring between d’Artagnan and the mob of angry Parisians with growing fear. Constance moved quickly to stand near d’Artagnan, feeling it to be the safest place at the moment.

“Claremont,” d’Artagnan growled, grabbing the loose-fitting jacket of one cadet. Constance blinked in surprise, not having realized that d’Artagnan would have known any of the cadets by name. She wondered if he’d picked up the names simply while wandering the garrison yesterday and watching the cadet’s train. “Go get Athos and the others,” d’Artagnan ordered. He gave the boy a slight shove. “Go now, Claremont.”

Constance tucked herself closer to d’Artagnan as the cadet ran back toward the garrison.

“Cadets!” d’Artagnan suddenly bellowed. “Fall back! Form a line.”

He gestured with arms spread wide, giving the young men something to align themselves with, putting himself and the cadets between the gates of Saint-Antoine and the angry Parisians, who were busy calling out accusations of betrayal and thievery. d’Artagnan began to question the loudest of the accusers, looking for some kind of evidence that what they claimed was true. Constance allowed herself one moment of hope that a peaceful solution could be found—then she saw their doom ride into the gathering crowd: Marcheaux.

Flanked by several of his Red Guard, Marcheaux held up a paper bearing what he claimed were the names of the ringleaders of what was amounting to an apparent grain heist—though how he could possibly know such a thing at the moment, Constance had no idea—and ordered his men to arrest them.

In retrospect, Constance surmised that some of her husband’s more impetuous reactions may have siphoned into her at some point.

She surged forward, fire in her eyes and shouted at Marcheaux. “You can’t do that!”

She felt a hand on her arm: one of the Red Guard, stepped forward to restrain her and keep her from, apparently, launching herself at Marcheaux. However, the man had barely touched her when d’Artagnan moved close, his eyes dark and holding a barely-disguised fury in their depths, and removed the man’s hand with an iron grip.

“Don’t. Touch. Her.” He warned.

Constance caught her breath, hearing Marcheaux’s taunts but not really registering his words, as the air shimmered with something dangerous. The Red Guard grabbed both she and d’Artagnan by the arms and she instinctively tried to pull away, her eyes on her husband as he reassured Marcheaux that he would _go quietly_. Only when Constance felt her arms released did she realize what d’Artagnan meant: Marchaeux was arresting him.

“d’Artagnan!” She reached for him, feeling strangely as though the fabric of her world was tearing.

“It’s okay,” he said, his eyes on her. “It’s okay, Constance. I’ll be okay.”

There was something entirely too calm about his bearing, his voice. It terrified her more than if he’d fought them. As he was pulled away by two of the Red Guard, she found herself moved away from him by the surge of the Red Guard and the crowd, edging her to the outer reaches of the mob until she was standing free, watching the shift and movement of the crowd giving way to the Red Guard as they broke down the gate and surged into the refugee camp at Saint-Antoine.

She suddenly felt like crying. This was her fault.

d’Artagnan had _just_ returned from battle and wanted nothing more than to spend some time with his wife and yet she’d decided to manipulate one of the few opportunities they had to be together to show off her knowledge of the changed city and it ended with him thrown into jail.

“Stop it, you silly girl,” she whispered fiercely to herself, squaring her shoulders and banishing the thought of tears. She had to find Athos. He would know how to get d’Artagnan out of this mess. He always had before.

No sooner had she turned to run back to the garrison when the very man she sought rounded the corner, flanked by Porthos and Aramis. She’d forgotten that d’Artagnan had had the presence of mind to send Claremont after them before the ruckus got out of hand. Relief flooded her, weakening her knees at the sight of the three men, walking in step, looks of determination mirrored on their faces.

“Constance,” Athos called, heading directly to her and catching her up close to him as if his proximity alone would keep her safe. “Where’s d’Artagnan?”

“They arrested him!” she bleated, dismayed to hear the tremble in her voice. She’d been so proud, so in control hours— _moments_ —before and now she was crumbling at the thought of anything happening to d’Artagnan. “Marcheaux and his Red Guard,” she continued, looking from Athos over her shoulder to where the cries and shouts emanated from Saint-Antoine, then back to Athos. “He defended the refugees, and— “

Aramis stepped close to Athos, a hand on his shoulder, and muttered a warning in his Captain’s ear. “Not here.”

Athos nodded once, then collected Constance with a hand around her waist, pulling her into a tavern and to a table in the corner. There, he demanded the details—why were they there, what was the history with Saint-Antoine, what was the grievance, what had d’Artagnan tried to do? She answered as clearly and honestly as she could, ignoring the fearful tremble of her heart.

As she spoke, she couldn’t help but notice the ease at which the three men stood together, watching her, watching the corners of the room, watching the hands of the patrons. They moved as they once hand: as if they breathed for one another once more.

Porthos leaned toward Aramis and mentioned something about questioning one of the men potentially responsible for the upheaval. Aramis nodded without looking at his friend, but Constance could see that the marksman’s whole focus in that moment was on Porthos’ every word.

Athos declared that he was going to search the refugee camp. He told Constance to be ready to retrieve d’Artagnan when they freed him.

“How do you know they will set him free?” Constance demanded. “Marcheaux _hates_ the refugees. They are no friends of the King, either, what with their freeman’s propaganda,” she continued in a harsh whisper, terrified of being overheard. “Oh, this is all my fault,” she moaned, covering her face with her hands.

“Constance,” Athos snapped, drawing her head up in surprise. “You do him and us a disservice by doubting.”

She blinked. This was the second time in as many days that Athos had scolded her for not having faith in her husband and his friends. She swallowed the sharp retort balanced at the edge of her tongue and let her gaze travel from Athos’ stern expression to Porthos’ and Aramis’ more sympathetic—but no less determined—eyes.

“I…I’m not… _doubting_ ,” she tried.

“We’re not going to let anything ‘appen to your man,” Porthos declared. “You think I got ‘im through that blasted war just to lose ‘im to a bunch of tosspots like the Red Guard?”

Athos straightened. “Better not let him hear you say that.”

“What? They _are_ tosspots!”

Aramis rested a hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “I think what our friend here is referring to was the part about _you_ getting _d’Artagnan_ through the war.”

Athos smiled, but Porthos scowled. “Well, ‘e ain’t ‘ere to complain none, and until ‘e is,” he glanced at Aramis, “it’s the way of it, for all you know.”

Aramis dropped his hand and nodded once. “Touchѐ.”

Porthos and Aramis escorted Constance to the garrison where she checked in on the cadets who had wandered home, lacking d’Artagnan’s leadership. That night was one of the longest of her life—contested only by the time she feared execution by beheading after d’Artagnan was beaten and dragged away from her cell window. She couldn’t imagine what was happening to him in that jail, if the refugees saw him as friend or foe, if the guards were cruel to him just because he was both a Musketeer and a soldier.

When Athos sent word that d’Artagnan was going to be released, Constance practically ran to the Chatelêt. He was unceremoniously shoved through the doors, looking no worse for wear except for the obvious signs of weariness under his eyes and in his bearing. It was clear to her that it had not been an easy night for him as well; they both bore the burden of sleeplessness.

She reached for him as he crossed the courtyard, but before she could hold him close and show how relieved she was to see that he was intact, his glower pushed her back.

“Your letters to the front said nothing of this,” he growled, motioning back to the Chatelêt and the innocent refugees still jailed there.

Constance blinked in surprise. “You’re one to talk,” she blurted without thinking. “You’re _littered_ with scars—you nearly _died_ in your first battle—and you told me _none_ of it!”

d’Artagnan frowned, not looking the least bit contrite. He was burning with too much righteous indignation from the suffering of Paris’ people to be concerned that he’d not be honest with her. His brows pulled close over the bridge of his nose, he began to push past her and continue away from the Chatelêt.

“That is different,” he muttered. “That was…mercy. Protection. This….” He shook his head, his hands restless against his sides, as though seeking a weapon. “This is _not_ what I fought for.”

Constance grabbed him by the front of his leathers and shook him slightly, demanding his attention. “What _did_ you fight for?”

She asked it to get him focused, get his mind out of the jail cell and into the next fight…but she needed to know on multiple levels. Why had he chosen to leave her when they’d just found each other again? Why had he chosen his brothers over her? Why did he put himself in danger, time and again, for them while she waited for him?

Just because she’d been capable, just because she appeared strong, didn’t mean she hadn’t been afraid. It didn’t mean she hadn’t been terribly, _terribly_ lonely.

d’Artagnan stared down at her, seemingly stumped by her question. She knew he had an answer, but some of her internal conflict must have echoed in her eyes because he simply stared at her, his eyes clearing of the anger that had filled them the moment he’d stepped into the sunlight from the murk of the Chatelêt. She stared back, challenging him to answer her. Demanding it.

Instead, he shook his head and turned as though ready to walk away from her again. “We are freeing the people in there,” he declared.

Constance rolled her eyes. “’Course we are,” she said, rounding on him once more and relishing in the slight surprise that blossomed in his dark eyes. “You think we’ve been out here doing nothing?” She gave him a quick kiss and took his hand, pulling him behind her as she marched them to where Athos instructed they meet up.

As they approached the other three Musketeers, Constance saw Porthos and Athos visibly relax. She knew they would have never let him hang, but the moment d’Artagnan was back with them once more, their entire demeanor changed. Now it was simply a mission, a challenge, a brash leader who needed to be taken down a peg or two. It wasn’t a desperate bid to save one of their own. She watched as they approached this particular problem with an ease she’d grown accustomed to before the war.

She wasn’t sure what had restarted their bonding, but it seemed the Inseparables could be edging back toward their well-earned moniker.

It took them the rest of the day, and not a little legwork, but they were able to prove the people of Saint-Antoine had not, in fact, stolen the grain. All but one of the refugees were released. Constance was dismayed to learn that one man had died in d’Artagnan’s arms during the night he spent away from them. Still it gave the four men a chance to see what Paris had become in their absence and the true job Treville had been asking of them when he brought them home from the front.

“I believe this calls for a drink. Or three,” Porthos declared to the group as they stood near the archway of the garrison, spent and satisfied from a long, successful day.

Athos smiled and clapped his hand on Porthos’ shoulder, ready to celebrate their victory. d’Artagnan slung his arm across Constance’s shoulders, ready to follow where Porthos led. Aramis, however, hung back, drawing surprised glances from the others.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” he said, a smile softening his decline. “It’s been a while since I’ve had some time for prayer.”

Porthos scoffed. “You ‘ad four years for prayer. We just got you back. You’re comin’ with us.”

Aramis tilted his head and Constance felt something shift in the air around them; a tension that hadn’t been present moments before was now tying the two men together like a bowstring.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Porthos,” Aramis tried once more, turning slightly away.

Porthos reached out a hand and stopped his friend’s retreat, fingers curled into the soft leather of Aramis’ sleeve. Constance was suddenly keenly aware that they stood just off the entrance to the garrison, with cadets milling about in the practice yard. Apparently Athos had become aware of this as well and reached out for Porthos’ arm.

“Let it go, Porthos,” he said quietly, his tone not one of an order but rather a friendly suggestion.

Porthos jerked his arm free of Athos’ hand. “No,” he practically growled. “We lost _four bleedin’ years_ , Athos.” He looked back at Aramis. “Four years, Aramis. And the first chance you get, you leave us again.”

“He isn’t _leaving_ , Porthos—“ d’Artagnan started, but Athos put a hand across the younger man’s chest, halting his defense as Aramis stepped forward, a dangerous shadow crossing features that until now had been apologetic and compliant. With a small bit of pressure, Athos pushed d’Artagnan and Constance back several steps as he made room for whatever was about to transpire between the two old friends.

“Yes,” Aramis hissed. “Four years. _Alone_. So, you’ll forgive me if—“

“And whose fault was that, eh?” Porthos snapped, facing off with Aramis, his entire posture that of a challenge.

Aramis matched him in stance, but kept his voice calm. “I only meant that I am not yet accustomed to constant companionship.”

“You were fine with it before,” Porthos pointed out.

Aramis took a measured breath, his eyes straying slightly toward Athos and d’Artagnan as if seeking help. Neither man moved; Constance felt the tension she’d noticed earlier broaden to enfold the two men standing next to her.

“I needed it before,” Aramis countered.

“And you don’t need it now, that it?” Porthos challenged. “d’Artagnan could have _died_ today. You realize that? Those bastards could ‘ave ‘ung ‘im. But I suppose that don’t matter since it didn’t ‘appen? Water under the bridge and all that.”

“That’s not fair,” Aramis growled, his gloved hands curling into fists.

“Fair? You want to talk about fair?” Porthos pushed at Aramis’ shoulders. “’ow _fair_ was it when we faced off with the Spanish and you weren’t by our side, eh?”

Aramis was breathing hard, the muscle along his jaw line rippling with an attempt at control. Constance felt her eyes burning with unshed tears as she watched. The pain slipping out through their words, from their posture…it was like looking at an open wound. Porthos was bleeding anguish all over his friend and Aramis was trying to hold the frayed pieces of himself together with broken fingers. Whatever balance she thought they’d achieved during the last few days spent together was not enough to heal the damage of the past four years.

“There wasn’t a day that went by I didn’t think of you— _all_ of you!” Aramis bit off. “I told those children stories of the great Musketeers to keep them strong, to keep them believing in something!”

“Oh, you told them stories, did ya?” Porthos growled, then grabbed the front of Aramis’ leather doublet, curling his fists into the pliable material. “Lot a good those stories did d’Artagnan when ‘e was bleeding out in a ditch! Or Bauer when ‘e died at the barricades! Or me when a Spanish spear ran me through!” He pushed at Aramis, backing the smaller man up a step and causing Aramis to grasp Porthos’ arms for balance. “Where were you then, eh? We _needed_ you and you were _telling stories_!”

Constance felt d’Artagnan tense next to her, pulling his arm from her shoulders as Porthos shoved Aramis once more. Through some sort of sixth sense or simply because he knew Porthos better than anyone at this point, he seemed to realize before anyone else did that the man was past his point of reason. The heavy fist that cracked Aramis across the jaw and sent the marksman staggering triggered d’Artagnan to move forward, seeking to stop them before they did too much damage.

Athos put his arm across d’Artagnan’s chest once more, however.

“Wait,” Athos murmured. “They need to do this.”

Constance wanted to protest that Porthos beating Aramis into a stupor was hardly conducive to repairing a friendship when Aramis suddenly lashed back, four years of pent up frustration and helplessness exploding from him as he shoved Porthos back until the bigger man crashed against the wall of the garrison. Athos turned at that and barked a harsh order to the cadets who’d gathered to witness this spectacle that they needed to return to their quarters immediately and any he saw in the courtyard five minutes from now would be cleaning the livery for a month.

Only grunts of effort and the slap of leather and skin were heard from Porthos and Aramis until Porthos pushed roughly away, staggering backwards, wounded eyes on Aramis’ face, blood on his chin from a split lip.

“We lost so many, Aramis,” he panted. “So many. And you weren’t there to speak to God on their behalf. They were…,” he grabbed a breath, fighting for balance both inside and out, “they were truly _lost_.”

Aramis leaned forward, his fists still curled at his sides. “I wasn’t your personal savoir, dammit! You don’t think I was drowning? That I didn’t need you just as keenly? I was…,” he shook his head and Constance felt a ripple of suffering slide through the air and sink into the men at her sides, “…I was crippled by my sin. My own misery. Anne and my son…so many lies…so much death. I was…I was _breaking_ from it.”

“You could ‘ave told us!” Porthos bellowed, his voice shaking through Aramis and causing the other man to straighten from the imagined impact. “We are your _brothers_ , Aramis! We would ‘ave been there for you if you’d let us.”

“I know!” Aramis yelled, surprising Porthos. “I know,” he repeated more quietly. “And that’s exactly why I had to save myself. My sins…they were my own. No one should have had to bear them for me.”

Porthos seemed to almost be swayed by Aramis’ reasoning until his eyes lit on Athos and d’Artagnan standing just behind Aramis, watching their battle with careful eyes.

“I’m not surprised you both are fine with this,” he muttered, spitting blood and dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. Aramis half turned at those words and glanced at Athos before looking away once more. “It’s the same thing ‘e said to us back at Douai when we tried to bring ‘im with us and you let it go then, too.”

“Porthos—“ d’Artagnan tried once more, his voice wavering with regret and need. Constance slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers in a show of silent support.

“Nah, don’t,” Porthos shook his head, lumbering forward until he was standing even with Aramis, his shoulders slumped, his will broken. “’e left us and you were fine with it, the both of you. You don’t see ‘im in four bloody years and yet—“

“That’s…not _exactly_ true,” Athos interrupted before Porthos could get too morose.

It took Constance a moment to catch the meaning behind Athos’ words, but d’Artagnan and Porthos both started as if struck, staring at their Captain in shock. She looked from their slack faces to Aramis’ downcast eyes and it suddenly dawned on her what Athos meant.

“You saw him,” she whispered. “At the Monastery?”

Athos shook his head. “In Le Mans.” He looked up at Porthos. “A little over a year ago, when you were sent to Versailles for more troops.”

“But you never…why didn’t you say anything?” d’Artagnan breathed, still staring wide-eyed at Athos.

“You were there, too,” Aramis revealed, glancing over at d’Artagnan. “Though I doubt you’d recall anything of that week.”

“ _Week_?” d’Artagnan bleated, sharing a glance with Porthos.

The big man reached for Aramis, grabbing him once more by the front of his doublet and gave him a shake. “Start talking.”

Constance stepped away from d’Artagnan, having reached her limit of watching men she saw as family cause each other more pain.

“Enough!” she put a hand on Porthos’ arm and one on Aramis’ shoulder. Porthos glanced down at her in surprise, as though he’d forgotten she was there. “I agree, you’re owed a story, but not here.”

Porthos nodded, smoothing out the fisted wrinkles from Aramis’ jacket before dropping his hand.

She turned to take Athos and d’Artagnan in with her glance. “Our quarters,” she practically ordered.

They turned as one and followed her almost meekly up the stairs and to the rooms she shared with d’Artagnan. As they quietly arranged themselves around the small table and hearth, Constance poured five goblets of wine, ensuring that Aramis had the largest pour.

He was going to need it.

“When we found Aramis in the tunnels beneath the Monastery,” Athos began, “you may recall that I wasn’t all that surprised to see him there.”

“You did act a bit as though you’d been expecting to find him,” d’Artagnan recalled.

Athos nodded. “Because I had.” He tipped his chin down, catching Porthos’ eye. “There is a very good reason I never said anything to you, my friend, and part of it was just put on display down in the courtyard.”

Porthos grumbled incoherently and looked away.

“You were partly right when you said I was fine with Aramis leaving,” Athos continued. “I never want to be free of him—of any of you,” he glanced askance at d’Artagnan, “but I understand the need for atonement. Probably better than you ever could, Porthos. There is a…a _weight_ that comes with feeling your sins chafe against your soul every day. It’s not a burden you can share with others to help you bear it more easily. It’s unique…a torture tailored just for you.”

Constance eased down to the floor, leaning against d’Artagnan’s legs as they listened to Athos.

“I saw that weight in Aramis’ eyes the day at Douai and I couldn’t in good conscience order him to leave.”

Porthos swallowed, nodding, but the pain that had prompted his rage in the courtyard hung like a tangible presence in the room.

“But…when you saw him again?” d’Artagnan asked, resting a hand on Constance’s shoulder.

Athos frowned, for the first time looking troubled by this unexpected reveal. “It’s complicated, d’Artagnan. You…. We nearly lost you.”

Constance pressed closer to her husband’s legs, listening with her whole being.

“Let me, Athos,” Aramis finally spoke up. “This one is my story to tell.”

Athos nodded, raising his goblet in permission. Aramis sat with his back to the hearth, knees tented before him, arms resting on his knees. He was directly across from Porthos, but he wasn’t really looking at his friend. As far as Constance could tell, he wasn’t really looking at anything.

“There’s only so much absolution a soldier can pray for,” Aramis began, “before his hands feel the lack of a sword. Especially when the world is burning around him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** Thanks for reading. Aramis’ story is next!


	6. The Barricade (Aramis)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. Caution for images of war and all that comes with it.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” – Edmund Burke

**

**Chapter 6: The Barricade (Aramis)**

There were times the fighting grew close enough to Douai that the walls shook. Dust fell from the ancient stones surrounding the altar where they knelt in prayer, turning the brown of their robes gray, but the monks were resilient in their veneration. Not even war swayed them from their devotion.

Aramis’ prayers were always more ardent during those times.

His mind had always been exceptional at painting pictures; it was part of what made him a good medic…and part of why Savoy had so thoroughly haunted him. He was often incapable of _not_ recalling a memory vividly, as if he were seeing it before him in that moment, real as it had once been. Therefore, when canon blasts sent candle flames sputtering in the chapel and the stone walls trembled, Aramis couldn’t help but picture the possible death of his friends, images from his own past battles haunting him with perfect clarity.

Before arriving at Douai, he’d been a desperate man, moving through life like the night was at his heels. Like he knew the darkness had his name in its pocket and it was coming for him…and he wouldn’t be strong enough to fight it. After arriving at Douai, however, he moved through the stone halls of the Monastery like a wraith, his heart shifting inside him like broken shards of a mirror, cutting and stabbing with each inhale, each attempted prayer snapping another piece until he felt his soul bleeding to death.

There seemed to be nowhere in this life where he was able to find peace.

“I would advise fasting,” the Abbot offered when Aramis brought his troubles forward. “Remove all complications of the world between you and the Lord. His will is clear when your heart, mind, _and_ body are ready to receive Him.”

So, Aramis fasted. He went without sleep. And he prayed.

And still the knowledge of the chaos of battle, the carnage of cannon, plagued him. His fellow monks grew worried for his health when they found him unconscious on the floor of the chapel, unresponsive to their ministrations. He woke after several days’ rest in his spartan cell, the Abbot sitting placidly next to his bed, eyes lit with something that looked like it had entered the world centuries before civilized things.

Before Aramis could say a word, the Abbot leaned forward. “Be mindful what you seek here, my son. People do not heal each other. And they never become anything but what they’ve always been.”

Aramis drew in a thin breath, suddenly wishing ardently for the predictable warmth of his friends’ presence. Some men wore judgement like a garment they couldn’t get to fit or that itched them terribly. The Abbot wore his like it had been tailored for him by the Almighty.

“And what am I?” Aramis had asked, his voice cracking with weakness and need.

The Abbot sat back, his chin lifting as his words crashed against the fragile shell Aramis had constructed during his time in Douai. “Only you are able to say that. Anything I tell you is simply gilded edges of a book; you are the only one who knows what is written on the pages within.”

A year turned into two and Aramis found that simply praying was not enough to find forgiveness. He had always been a man of action. In the past, he’d feared he’d been hiding his sins in the flotsam of constant movement. But now he realized that was his way of giving back, replacing the lives he’d taken with second chances. He worked with his fellow monks—he balked at calling them _brothers_ , despite how they addressed him—taking in children abandoned and orphaned from the war.

Working with Percival, a monk who had been at Douai since he himself had been a boy, Aramis created a safe ward, a curriculum, and a routine of contribution for the growing number of children under their care. He poured his heart into this new calling, trying to find his path to faith, to peace—beyond the call of the sword and musket.

He was tempted to leave—yet every day he forced himself to find a reason to stay, to pray harder, to give more. One morning, after nearly a year of this latest calling capturing his attention, Aramis found himself standing on the upper level of the keep, staring down into the courtyard at the children playing, and thought of the day he’d had to turn his friends away.

Their arguments had been fierce, their belief as strong as his—just in a different direction.

He remembered Athos’ reluctant acceptance, the familiar understanding in his friend’s blue eyes was almost as hard to bear as the betrayal in Porthos’ or the confusion in young d’Artagnan’s. They were in his dreams at night. They stood next to him as he coached the children through their lessons. They were in the words he spoke in prayer. He missed them. Every day he missed them.

But he was where he was supposed to be. He was almost certain of it.

_Almost_.

“The war has reached the outlying area surrounding Le Mans,” Percival informed him that evening over their community meal.

Aramis nodded noncommittally, forcing himself to focus on the food on his plate, the water in his cup, and not on the possibility that Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan could be only a few miles from him. Could be fighting, bleeding, dying, practically on his doorstep.

“I am proposing a Mission,” Percival continued.

“What sort of mission?” Aramis asked, still unable to look the man in the eye.

“We have medical knowledge among us,” Percival replied, keeping his insinuation vague, “food in our storehouses. I say we set up a Mission outside Le Mans to help those impacted.”

Aramis froze, lifting his eyes to Percival’s, staring hard. “You mean the French soldiers?”

“French, Spanish…,” Percival shrugged expressively. “They are all God’s children, are they not? And they are in need of our help and testimony.”

There had been a time, several years ago now, that Athos had been quite lost…wavering through life in a world of pain and grief, unable to latch on to any one thing. Aramis had pulled his friend out of more than one deep cup of wine, guiding him home and encouraging him to stand tall once more, despite the fact that Athos had no interest in engaging with the world at large.

_“What you put out in this world always comes back to you,”_ Aramis had told him one night. _“Though, it rarely comes back how you predict.”_

Later that same month, Charles d’Artagnan had stormed into the garrison and changed their lives completely.

Now, it seemed, another brother—of sorts—was offering Aramis the same advice…only somehow it felt to Aramis more of a challenge. What _was_ he doing with his life? What was he doing with all this forgiveness he sought? How was he showing God that he _deserved_ forgiveness? Simply by putting down his sword, stepping away from the violence, the temptation? What was he giving back to the world?

“We’ll need more than just the two of us,” Aramis said to Percival, giving way to the idea of a Mission. “And we’ll need supplies.”

Percival’s round face lit up as though Aramis had just offered him a grand gift. “So, you’re agreed?”

Aramis nodded. “Who will watch the children?”

“Anaïs,” Percival replied immediately, clearly having already approached the ancient man. “With Lawrence to help with some of the…more exuberant ones.”

Aramis nodded again. “Food and medicine, yes? That is all?”

“I won’t ask you to betray your vows, Brother,” Percival promised. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Right.” Aramis nodded, knowing in some dark corner of his mind that it didn’t matter Percival’s intent…it mattered what life decided to throw their way. And his vows had very little to do with it.

At dawn the following morning, Aramis, Percival, and three other monks rode toward the small town of Le Mans. It didn’t take long to set up their mobile Mission. A simple tent, a few cots, and a table were all they had to offer. It also didn’t take long for the poor, the displaced, the hungry to hear about them and wander by for food, for prayer, for comfort.

It was the first time in three years Aramis felt whole.

He was keeping his promise to God, his promise to himself, and he was actually _helping_ people. Perhaps he wasn’t protecting them as he had in years past, but he also wasn’t hurting anyone. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of Anne, of their son, of Marguerite, of how many hearts shattered and lives destroyed because of him. Caring for the people of Le Mans, he was able to begin mending the broken pieces inside of him.

Until the war landed in his lap.

Seemingly without warning, the world caught fire. The city of Le Mans was smoldering, wounded citizens pouring into their Mission, seeking safety, healing, reassurance that life as they knew it was not, in fact, over. Aramis and his fellow monks gathered information from the people as they bound lacerations, treated burns, set bones.

The French soldiers had retreated into the city with a battalion of Spanish on their heels. The citizens of Le Mans hid the French soldiers as best they could while the Spanish began going door to door seeking them out. When found, the Spanish dragged both the soldiers and their saviors into the street and shot them, leaving the bodies where they fell.

Aramis worked tirelessly to provide aid, healing where he could, sending people to safety with food and water when healing wasn’t the need. The monks began to work in shifts, but Aramis refused to stop until the people stopped coming to them. He couldn’t bring himself to sleep while there was such clear suffering.

And he couldn’t deny the fact that he feared each time a soldier was brought to their mission it would be a familiar face from the garrison.

“They’ve built a barricade,” Percival told Aramis as he helped treat the burned arm of a girl no older than ten. “The citizens are fighting alongside the French soldiers against the invading Spanish.”

“We have to _do_ something,” Aramis whispered, looking around at the gathering crowd of people, the muffled cries of pain and loss setting a backdrop for the crack of musket fire and boom of cannon in the distance.

“We _are_ doing something!” Percival protested. “We are healing them, sheltering them.”

Aramis stood and dropped a bloody rag to the ground next to the cot where the little girl now lay, brown eyes red-rimmed and vacant from shock.

“We are a stop-gap,” Aramis growled. “A bandage, only.”

Percival stood, stepping up to Aramis, his loose robes swirling around his stick-thin frame. “We took vows, Aramis!”

Aramis narrowed his eyes at the older man. “Nowhere in my vows did it say I should stand by and allow people to die if there is something I can do to prevent it.”

He started to turn away.

“Wait!” Percival grabbed his arm. “What can you do, Aramis? You’ve not slept in nearly three days! You’re almost in as much need of care as these people here.”

Aramis shook off his arm. “I am fine. You don’t think those soldiers are exhausted? Those people? The innocent are dying to protect their city—their very _lives_ —mere yards from where we stand!”

He turned again, ignoring Percival’s entreaty for him to stop, to think. The late hour cloaked his short journey in shadow as he headed for the south wall around Le Mans, thinking of the desperation of the people who’d found their way to the mission. It was their heritage, their faith, their language, their history being threatened and his prayers were doing nothing to assuage the fire in his belly that screamed he could fight.

He _could_ make a difference.

The city was chaos. Smoke-filled streets lined with broken furniture and echoing with shouts and gunfire gave way to silent alleyways with bodies lying haphazardly like the people of Le Mans had simply decided lie down and nap where they stood. Standing just inside the south entrance to the city, his monk robes camouflaging him against the stone for the moment, Aramis weighed his options.

He’d learned a thing or two from Porthos about surviving on the streets of Paris as a child of the Court of Miracles. When the streets weren’t safe, there were two direction to head: up or down. Aramis peered up at the darkened rooftops of Le Mans. Poised at various points and corners of different buildings, he could see reflecting in the firelight the barrel of a sharpshooter trained down on the street—most of them directed toward the largest portion of smoke, where Aramis guessed the barricade Percival had told him about was located.

That would be where he was most needed. He could pull people to safety. Mend men where they fell. He could do _something_ other than simply pray for the mercy of their souls or the salvation of his own.

He’d avoid the marksmen easily enough, knowing from personal experience what they’d be focused on and what they wouldn’t. But, he lacked the strength of Porthos—and apparently the agility of d’Artagnan—to easily navigate the rooftops at a quick enough pace to avoid complete detection, so it was down through the sewers for him.

It wasn’t difficult to find the nearest sewer entrance even at night; the putrid odor gave it away easily enough. He simply had to gauge the distance he’d have to travel beneath the streets of Le Mans until he reached the barricade. Lifting his eyes toward the shouts and smoke, Aramis had no sooner begun to calculate the distance when he saw—heard, _felt_ —a tremendous explosion rock the chaotic streets of Le Mans.

“Dear God,” he whispered, instinctively crouching down as cannon fire blew through the barricade and the screams of pain and fear flooded the city.

Fire was _everywhere_.

Aramis pulled the metal sewer grate up and began to rapidly descend the slime-covered, wooden ladder, the muck at the bottom knee-deep. His robes sank into the sewage, tugging at him as he found his footing. Gagging at the stench, Aramis pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth, taking shallow breaths as he moved toward the worst of the screams—the sound muted by the stone around and above him.

Reluctantly trailing a hand along the damp walls to keep his bearing in the near-complete darkness, Aramis’ eyes instinctively sought the only light filtering down into the murk—that of the embers from the destruction above slipping through the grates like drunken fireflies. He slogged through the sewage, keeping track of how many grates he passed, listening as the screams grew louder, the gunfire increasing. When he felt he’d passed the actual point of origin for the explosion, he searched for the next ladder up.

As he stepped on the first rug, his monk robes pulled at him, soaked through with the slog around him. Shrugging out of them impatiently, realizing that without them it would be impossible to distinguish him from a citizen of Le Mans—or even a soldier sans armor—Aramis climbed up and out through the sewer grate…

…and into the middle of Hell itself.

There were people of Le Mans, French soldiers, Spanish soldiers fighting, dying, dead all around. There was no clear direction of safety, no battle line drawn. The barricade was a mass of smoldering or burning wood, twisted metal, and bodies.

So _many_ bodies.

Aramis felt his heart wrenching painfully in his chest. This is what he’d walked away from, what he’d hidden from. And he was standing in the middle of it anyway. The years of prayer and atonement had simply led him back to the very thing he’d been trying to escape.

Was _this_ who he was? Not a man of God, but a soldier? A killer?

As he stood gaping, a figure lunged at him from the side. Aramis reacted on pure instinct, turning and flinging the man away from him and into a wall, only then realizing the man wore the uniform of a Spanish soldier. Breathing hard, Aramis looked back the way that man had approached and saw two more toward him through the smoke, fire lighting up the street as if it were the middle of the day. He grabbed the first implement he could reach—a spear of some kind—and batted away the swords that came at him.

“I do not wish to kill you,” he cried in French, then repeated louder in Spanish.

The sound of their own language gave the soldiers pause, enough that they held their swords at bay, peering at Aramis in his simple white shirt and leather breeches, no longer marked as a man of God in his long robes. He held the spear in front of him, his posture defensive, but didn’t strike out. One man turned away, running back toward the barricade. The other rushed at Aramis, seeming to not care if Aramis had no wish to kill.

He fought, his body remembering how to move even if his mind and heart rebelled. He managed to disarm the soldier, cracking him soundly across the head and felling him without shedding blood before he staggered back, the spear falling from numb fingers, air hammering from panicked lungs. He stumbled over a body lying face-down on the stone; the sight snapped him from his daze and he knelt to feel for a pulse.

Finding none, Aramis moved forward, body to body, trying to find someone alive, someone he could help. The fighting continued around him, but he kept low to the ground, checking for survivors, blinking smoke from his eyes, wiping sweat from his brow, and hoping to find just one.

Just _one_ who still lived.

“You men there!”

Aramis froze at the sound of that rough shout.

“Grab up that wagon and push it forward, toward the barricade!”

The voice was battered—like someone had pulled it from its owner and dragged it across a riverbed before putting it back—but he would know it anywhere. He straightened from where he’d been crouched next to the wall of what had once been a tavern, finding himself suddenly face to face with the voice’s owner.

“Athos.”

The man’s blue eyes were red-rimmed from smoke; soot and blood smeared his features and crinkled at the corners of his eyes as they squinted at Aramis as though trying to assess if the main was a figment of his imagination. His uniform was torn and filthy, his hands shook at his sides and one glance told Aramis it was from pain, not fear. His fingers were burned, the palms bleeding from opened wounds.

“Athos,” Aramis repeated, reaching forward to grip his friend by the shoulders. “It’s me.”

“It can’t be you,” Athos replied, his voice flat like he was dismissing something too ridiculous to contemplate.

“I snuck in through the sewers,” Aramis explained. “To try to help the wounded.”

“Aramis?” Athos peered at him, his trembling hands coming up as though of their own accord, reaching for Aramis’ face. “It’s…really you?”

Aramis grabbed the back of Athos’ neck in a firm but gentle grip, pulling the man closer to him. “It’s me.”

He had no idea what to expect—actually finding Athos, _alive_ , had been part of his wildest dreams—but he was pretty sure it hadn’t been laughter. The bark of pure joy that shook through Athos startled Aramis into stepping back slightly, the ping of a musket ball barely missing him and bouncing off the side of the tavern. Athos tugged him inside the husk of the tavern, wincing as his hands made contact with Aramis’ shirt.

“You’re wounded,” Aramis exclaimed.

He glanced around quickly for something to use as a bandage. Seeing the body of a Spanish soldier lying nearby, he ducked away from Athos’ grip and tore strips from the dead man’s shirt, standing once more to wrap them carefully around Athos’ palms. He was acutely aware of the fact that Athos didn’t once take his eyes off of him.

“Aramis….” Athos whispered, the minute Aramis had tied off the second bandage he grabbed the other man to him in a crushing embrace. “You’re _here_.”

A sharp, unnamed emotion seemed to slice through him and Aramis allowed himself a moment to hold his friend, grateful for the brief interlude that acknowledged their years of friendship as if no choice, no desperate need for penance, had separated them. Athos pushed him away once more, shrewd eyes scanning him as though seeking all the cracks in his non-existent armor.

“ _How_?” Athos demanded.

“We,” he glanced up at Athos’ face, “the monks and I, that is, are running a mission just outside of Le Mans for the displaced and wounded.”

“But…you’re _here_.” Athos seemed dazed; Aramis’ quick eyes ran over his friend’s face, noting the bleeding cut along Athos hairline.

“I heard the barricade had fallen,” Aramis said. “I-I _needed_ to help.”

That seemed to bring Athos back around. “We lost half our battalion.”

Aramis swallowed hard, looking around the room empty of everything save bodies and destroyed furniture. “Porthos?”

Athos shook his head once. “He isn’t here,” he assured Aramis, no doubt noting the instant sag of relief that shot through Aramis at the news. “He’s gathering more troops, out by Versailles.”

“d’Artagnan?” Aramis asked, knowing that if possible, the young Gascon would be as close as possible to Athos.

The look of pure dread and despair that swept Athos’ features sent a spear through Aramis’ heart. Before the older man could answer however, they both heard his name bellowed from outside the tavern. Aramis turned in time to see a blood-and-soot covered Bauer crash through the doorway, his eyes only for his Captain.

“Athos!”

“Report,” Athos demanded, the shock of seeing Aramis having apparently evaporated at the sight of one of his men in such a state of panic.

“d’Artagnan,” Bauer gasped, his breath rasping through blistered lips, tearing across an obviously raw throat. “He was on the front lines—on the barricade. I can’t find him.”

“He was on the barricade, you’re sure?” Athos demanded, stepping forward to grip Bauer’s arm frantically.

“He shoved me down just as they fired and…I must have…,” Bauer shook his head, swaying alarmingly for a moment before bringing his focus back to Athos. “When I woke it was…everything burned and I…I searched for him, but….”

“We will find him,” Aramis declared, adding his grip to Athos’ and bringing Bauer’s attention toward him. He wasn’t surprised to see no recognition in Bauer’s dazed blue eyes. The man was clearly in shock; Aramis recognized the signs. He’d _been_ those signs, once upon a time. “Come on!”

Bauer was moving on adrenalin alone; one arm was mangled and hanging limply at his side, blood dripping from his fingertips. The other held a sword in a grip so tight it looked like he’d forgotten the weapon wasn’t part of him. He led the way back toward the burning chaos that had been the barricade, his sword slashing and stabbing at anyone who dared get in his way, no matter the color of their uniform. Athos hurried forward, grabbing the sword from Bauer’s hand, wincing as he gripped the hilt, then urged the other man forward.

They climbed over shattered tables and bed frames, wagon beds and doors, chairs and benches. Literally anything the people of Le Mans had been able to scrounge from their homes in hopes of keeping the Spanish at bay had been tossed into a tangle in the street, further destroyed by the Spanish cannons.

Aramis knew he should take up the sword from Athos, spare the man’s wounded hands, but couldn’t bring himself to take that step. He focused instead on searching each body they found, regardless of its state, for their young Gascon. Some fit d’Artagnan’s general build but were so mangled there was no way to tell who they had been. Aramis muttered a prayer that none of the faceless, limbless bodies they moved aside were indeed their young friend.

“Oh, God,” Athos suddenly choked out, his eyes on a body lying backwards across a jutting mess of wood as though dropped from the sky, the blue sash that had once marked them as Musketeers still around a narrow waist, dark hair hanging loose except for where it was matted against the man’s skull, and blood covering the face.

“No,” Bauer choked out, staggering forward, climbing part of the barricade until he came level with d’Artagnan’s dangling arm, reaching for his friend with a trembling hand. “I promised…I _promised_.”

“Bauer, wait!“ Aramis called, clambering up the unsteady mess of wood to reach d’Artagnan’s side. He’d seen the lad breathing. “He’s—“

Bauer growled, low in his throat at first and then with growing fervor that turned the sound into something not quite human. Before Aramis or Athos could do anything to stop him, the older man grabbed a discarded sword and charged over the top of the barricade toward where the rest of the French and Spanish troops still entrenched in the city continued to fight.

“Stop!” Athos shouted, his order falling on deaf ears as Bauer disappeared into the melee.

Aramis and Athos stared after their lost comrade, then down at d’Artagnan.

“Is he…?” Athos rasped.

Aramis felt for a pulse. “He lives.” The unspoken _for now_ beat against both of them in the tapering musket fire as the battle started to moved away from them.

“Get him down from there, Aramis,” Athos ordered, sinking against the broken bits of wood like a marriontte with cut strings.

Aramis climbed over d’Artagnan’s sprawled body, hefting bits of furniture that had fallen across him, pinning in him place, then eased the limp Gascon into his arms, half dragging, half carrying him from the barricade to the stones of the street below. Athos knelt next to him, his wrapped hands hovering over d’Artagnan’s battered, bloody face as though he wasn’t sure if touching the younger man would mean his end or his salvation.

“Will he survive?” Athos rasped the question, his body strung tight as he braced for the answer.

Aramis shook his head helplessly. “It’s impossible to say, Athos,” he said softly. “I can’t tell what his injuries are—the cuts on his face alone….”

Another blast of musket fire had them both ducking, curling instinctively over d’Artagnan’s slim body. As they straightened, Aramis reached for the dented breastplate of d’Artagnan’s armor.

“Help me get this off of him,” he pleaded, tugging at the dirty leather strap.

The two men unlatched the armor and gently as possible pulled it from d’Artagnan’s body. The fine chainmail beneath had been twisted and burned, some of it melted to the leather doublet beneath. Athos pulled a small dagger from his belt and cut the doublet free from d’Artagnan’s chest, working with Aramis to remove the protective gear from their young friend’s body. Neither man acknowledge the fear that spiked inside of them when d’Artagnan didn’t even flinch from their manhandling.

Another blast had them curling once more over him and when the world again stilled, Athos looked up at Aramis with desperate eyes.

“You must get him out of here,” he said, reaching for Aramis’ loose shirt. “Take him to your Mission. Get him help.”

Aramis blinked, surprised. “Athos, I—“

“You _must_ do this,” Athos curled his fist into Aramis’ shirt, his blood soaking into the cloth fibers. “You owe him. You owe _me_.”

Aramis felt his eyes burn; Athos had been the one to understand, to accept. Athos had been the one to first grant him forgiveness. And yet….

Athos groaned slightly, his shoulder sagging forward until his forehead rested on Aramis’ shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Aramis,” he whispered. “That was unfair of me. I don’t….” He lifted wounded eyes to Aramis’ face. “I can’t protect him. I’m not…enough.”

Aramis gripped Athos’ shoulders and set him back on his knees once more, balancing him. “You are more than enough,” he replied. “It’s war that’s too much.”

“Please, save him, Aramis,” Athos begged, tears filling his eyes as he sat with his wounded hands cradled in his lap. “I was wrong to say you owed us, but…,” he closed his eyes, bowing his head as if in prayer. “He will die where he is if he stays with me. _Please._ ”

And maybe he was praying.

To anyone in the universe who would help him save his friend—the one person in the world who had had the fortitude and brashness to pull him from a pit of his own making just by being alive. For Athos, losing d’Artagnan would be worse than losing his own life, something Aramis knew beyond question.

“If I take him from here, and they find out…it will be considered desertion,” Aramis warned.

Athos opened his eyes, smoke and emotions burning the whites red. “If you take him from here, and he survives, you let _me_ worry about that.”

Aramis felt his heart clench. “I can’t leave you, Athos. Not…,” he looked around at the Hell burning around them, “not here. Not like this.”

“You can,” Athos nodded once. “You _must_.”

Aramis swallowed roughly, looking down at the still form of their friend. “Find us,” he stated, not looking at Athos. “You get out of this chaos, and you find us. I will take him to Douai; the Mission is too dangerous now.” He looked up at Athos. “I will watch for you. Every day. Until you find us.”

Athos held out his wounded hand across d’Artagnan’s body and Aramis clasped it in a gentle grip. They stared at each other. The years of brotherhood, of friendship, the times of sacrifice, of forgiveness...for Aramis, they all seemed to coalesce into this one suspended moment, kneeling in a leftover battle, the world burning down around them, the body of their friend lying between them, and a promise clasped in their hands.

“Promise me,” Aramis demanded. “You say the words. I’ll believe you.”

Athos offered him a small, trembling imitation of a smile, and nodded once. “I will find you.”

Aramis released his friend’s hand, then untied the blue Musketeer sash d’Artagnan still wore from the young man’s waist. It was soot and blood stained now; only a fellow Musketeer would know it for the symbol it was. He found a clean side and placed it over d’Artagnan’s swollen eyes, trying to staunch the blood flow there as best he could.

Tying the sash securely at the back of d’Artagnan’s head, he bent and lifted d’Artagnan into a seated position, tucking his shoulder into the younger man’s midsection, hefting him up across his shoulders, holding one of d’Artagnan’s arms and legs to anchor him. Athos stood, a found sword in his hand, and nodded once to Aramis before turning and following in the direction of Bauer and, presumably, the rest of his men.

Taking a deep, stuttering breath, Aramis turned from the burning street to find the sewer grate he’d emerged from, d’Artagnan his personal cross to bear. It was quickly apparent that he wasn’t going to be able to get both of them through the entrance carrying d’Artagnan as he was, and he was terrified of leaving the young man alone above ground even for a moment. Easing d’Artagnan’s body through the grate, Aramis hung on to his arm, blood and sweat making his grip uncertain, and lowered the young Gascon as he climbed unsteadily down the slimy wooden rungs of the ladder to land, splashing, in the muck below.

d’Artagnan’s body had sunk to the waist in the sludge and Aramis gagged slightly as he lifted his friend over his shoulders once more.

“I thought this town smelled bad on the outside,” he gasped as he hefted d’Artagnan to a more balanced position. “Be glad you’re unconscious, my friend.”

The added weight made the journey through the sewers more challenging; Aramis feared at any moment a big enough ember would fall through the grating and set the gasses around him on fire. With d’Artagnan positioned as he was, Aramis was unable to pull his shirt over his nose and mouth and simply had to breathe shallowly as he counted the sewer grates above him, seeking the point of origin near the city wall.

Exhaustion tugged on him, reminding him that he’d pushed his body further than was healthy. d’Artagnan’s limp arm swung loosely as Aramis staggered beneath his friend’s weight, but Aramis was glad for it. He knew from experience that the absence of life was heavier than the presence of it. He would bear d’Artagnan’s weight as long as he must.

When he finally found the correct grate he coughed out a relieved breath, then peered up to the burgeoning light of dawn at the opening, contemplating how to get d’Artagnan through the narrow space without dropping them both into the muck below. Before he could work out a feasible plan, a face appeared above them, blocking the light. For one brief moment, Aramis allowed himself to hope they’d been found by an ally—a French soldier or a citizen of Le Mans.

Then he saw the red plume of color on the man’s sleeve.

“What are you doing down there?” the man asked him in Spanish.

Aramis felt his entire body sag with weariness. “My friend,” he replied, his Spanish accent thickening with exhaustion. “He’s hurt badly. I need to get him out of the city.”

“I would never have thought to go below,” the man muttered, sounding slightly amazed. “Hand me your friend; I will help you.”

Aramis hesitated—trust a Spanish soldier with d’Artagnan’s life? What if he saw the sash? What if he recognized him as a French soldier?

“Come, my friend,” the man entreated, reaching down through the grate. “I give you my word as a Spaniard.”

Aramis chuffed quietly, his reply muffed by the noise of the city. “I’ve known too many Spaniards.”

“Trust me,” the soldier called down one last time. “I will not let him fall.”

_He will die where he is if he stays with me,_ Athos had said.

_We’re basically standing in his grave as it is_ , Aramis thought, the words a poisoned whisper in his ear.

Aramis had no choice.

He shifted d’Artagnan around until they were roughly face-to-face, Aramis embracing the lad as he propped him against the ladder, d’Artagnan’s head resting limply on his shoulder.

“Reach down,” Aramis called up. “I will lift him up to you.”

Between the two of them, they were able to pull d’Artagnan free of the sewers. Aramis climbed out, sitting on the ground for a moment, grabbing lungfuls of moderately—in comparison anyway—fresh air. The Spanish soldier clapped Aramis on the shoulder, a smile of wonder and appreciation on his face.

“You must truly value your friend to wade through shit for him,” he said, something like a laugh trapped at the back of his throat.

Aramis simply nodded.

“The wall of the city is that way,” the soldier pointed. “Our forces have overrun the town; there are only a few French left, so you can get him to help easily.”

Aramis swallowed hard, trying not to let his dismay show on his face.

“Thank you,” he gasped, taking the other man’s hand and allowing the help to stand. He bent and gathered d’Artagnan up once more, grimacing as the younger man’s weight settled again on his tired shoulders. “Are you staying?”

The Spanish soldier nodded. “I must find my friends,” he tipped his head toward the gutted town and ruined barricade. “Without them,” he shrugged, “what is there of me?”

Aramis felt his brows bend in recognition, feeling for one moment a kinship with this man—for all intents and purposes his enemy, and yet, he was simply a person. A child of God, as Percival had said. They spoke different languages, hailed from different journeys, but at the end of it all, they were people. Just… _people_.

“Good luck to you,” Aramis replied, nodding once to the Spanish soldier, wondering at the same time if by letting him go he was in a way signing the death warrant of a French soldier. Athos, maybe.

Not letting himself think of that too long, he moved away from the sewer and toward the wall of the city. In the daylight, he could see from the outlying area of the city that what the Spanish soldier had told him was true: the Spanish army had indeed overtaken the city—even their mission was a sea of red and black uniforms. He couldn’t take d’Artagnan there, even to rest. He had to push forward to Douai.

Sneaking as quietly as he could bearing a man across his shoulders, Aramis paused at the back of their mission tent and slipped a spare water skin from the side of the wagon. Hanging it around his neck, he reached in once more and grabbed as many bottles of herbs and remedies he could reach, not bothering to check what they were for, and stuffed them into his pockets before hurrying toward the treeline.

No one stopped him; no one so much as called out.

He walked for nearly an hour before he reached a small brook, sinking to his knees and easing d’Artagnan from his aching shoulders. A sound slipped from d’Artagnan as he lay his young friend flat next to the brook—something between a sob and a whimper. Aramis thought that if agony had a sound, it would be that.

He pulled the sash from d’Artagnan’s eyes, wincing as he was finally able to inspect the damage in the light. Using the water skin, he cleaned the dirt and blood from d’Artagnan’s face and hair, finding numerous cuts still sluggishly bleeding—one near enough to his left eye Aramis had to wonder if the lad would be blinded, should he recover. His eyes were swollen, his lips blistered, and there were burns along his hands and arms. Aramis remembered Bauer’s staggered explanation of d’Artagnan having pushed him aside.

Parting the filthy shirt, Aramis saw a deep bruise on d’Artagnan’s chest, though he could feel no broken bones. He worried about the concussive impact—the chest plate of the armor had been dented. That was sure to damage d’Artagnan internally and this bruise was proof. Aramis looked around, wishing desperately for a horse or the materials to make a travois—something that would not mean he had to carry d’Artagnan on his shoulders the whole way to Douai and risk further damaging the Gascon’s torso.

“Would that I had the strength of Porthos, my friend,” he said softly, smoothing d’Artagnan’s damp hair from his swollen eyes. “I could carry you like a babe from these woods. Which I’m sure you’d love once you woke to find out.”

He poured the last of the water from the water skin across d’Artagnan’s blistered lips, making sure most of it went down the unconscious man’s throat, then cleaned the sash and refilled the water skin. Wrapping the sash back around d’Artagnan’s eyes, he waded into the stream and washed the filth from his breeches as best he could, then dragged d’Artagnan in to do the same, keeping the lad’s upper half from the cold water.

Once they no longer reeked quite as bad, he shouldered d’Artagnan and continued forward. He promised himself he would stop and find food at the break in the forest, just before the last leg toward Douai. His eyes burned from exhaustion, making his vision swim. The trees were both too loud and too quiet—the birds, animals, swaying of the branches…they all made the wrong kind of noise. After the cacophony of Le Mans, Aramis yearned for voices.

“You’ve not changed in the last three years, it seems,” he said quietly to his unconscious burden. “How is that a fair assessment, you ask?” Aramis chuffed, adjusting d’Artagnan’s weight. “After all, you’re unconscious and bleeding. Can’t defend yourself. But I say—“ he stumbled and went to a knee, bowing his head in a quick bid for strength before pushing upright again, “that you ended up this way because you were on the front lines, right in the thick of it, charging into the fray like always. Brave and reckless….”

He carried forward, saving his breath until he could no longer stand the silence.

“I prayed for you, d’Artagnan,” he rasped. “I prayed for all of you. Every day. I thought of you, and Porthos, and Athos…I imagined what was happening to you and…,” he felt his breath hitch in his chest, weariness doing what no amount of prayer or fasting or supplication had yet been able to: tearing down his walls. “I was afraid,” he whispered.

He stumbled again, and this time, he fell all the way to his hands and knees, d’Artagnan rolling limply from his shoulders and ending in a heap. Aramis choked on a sob, crawling forward and gathering d’Artagnan against him, backing up until he was leaning against a tree, the young Gascon half on his lap, half sprawled between his outstretched legs. He wrapped one arm around d’Artagnan’s damaged chest, resting the other hand on top of d’Artagnan’s head, leaning his face against the mop of dark hair.

“I feared losing you— _all_ of you—but more than that, I f-feared losing me.” His whisper was harsh, tears turning to acid at the back of his throat. “I feared what I would become if I joined you, if I picked up a sword. It wouldn’t be duty, or honor,” he sniffed, letting the emotion sear his face. “It would be _vengeance_. And I w-would have been consumed by it.”

The trees absorbed his confession silently, swaying lazily in the breeze. The sun yawned in reaction to his shame, stretching long arms across the horizon as it prepared to give way to its cold sister, the moon. The only thing that indicated d’Artagnan still lived was the faint but stead _thrum_ of the younger man’s heart against the palm of Aramis’ hand, and the soft puff of breath against his neck.

Aramis was used up.

He’d spent every last ounce of energy getting them this far—within a mile of Douai—and he simply couldn’t go farther without rest. He dropped his head back against the tree, tears drying on his face, and in moments he was asleep. It was dreamless, his body desperate for a chance to rebuild. He lost all sense of time, but awoke feeling uncomfortably warm, his shoulders aching miserably.

Blinking in the darkness, Aramis looked around, confused at first. The weight on him was stifling; he started to push it away before he realized that it was a body.

“d’Artagnan,” he breathed, shifting from beneath his friend’s bruised body. The heat he’d felt was from d’Artagnan, fever having taking hold during the night and turned the young Gascon’s chances of survival from possible to grim. “No….”

Aramis unstrapped the water skin from around his neck and made d’Artagnan drink, not bothering to untie the sash from around the younger man’s eyes—it was, ironically, too dark to see the damage. Looking around he said a quick prayer of thanks that no one had found them while they were so exposed to danger. With a growl of pain from his sore shoulders, Aramis lifted d’Artagnan once more, wincing at the low moan he heard slip from d’Artagnan’s parted lips. The degree of heat he could feel sinking through his shirt from the young man’s body pushed him forward, regardless of his own aches, pains, and weariness.

Moonlight guided his way through the woods and across the plains, until he saw the gates of Douai’s Monastery standing like an omen in the night. He nearly sobbed once more, but couldn’t afford to stop now. If he stopped, if he so much as stumbled, he wasn’t rising again. He called out as he drew closer to the gates, watching as torches within were lit. It had been three months since he, Percival, and the three other monks had left Douai to set up their Mission. For the first time he wondered if he would, in fact, be welcomed back.

“Who approaches?” called Lawrence, the young monk who was helping Anaïs with the children.

“It’s Aramis,” he cried breathlessly. “I have a w-wounded man with me.”

“Why are you not taking him to your Mission?” This was the Abbot; Aramis would know that voice in his sleep.

“I cannot,” Aramis said, his voice thinning along with his energy. “It was too dangerous. You must give us sanctuary.” _Please_ , he added silently.

“What of Percival?” the Abbot demanded.

Aramis swallowed. “When last I saw him, he was fine and doing God’s work,” he answered truthfully. No need to mention the mission had been overrun by the Spanish. At least not until he was able to get d’Artagnan help.

The gate creaked open and Aramis stepped through, surprised to be stopped by one of the older monks carrying a torch.

“Be careful,” the man told him, “and follow me. Walk where I walk.”

Blinking in dazed amazement, Aramis carried d’Artagnan through the courtyard of the Monastery, over the small cloister that led to the living quarters, and into the keep. It was clear the monks had been preparing—perhaps not for battle, but for defense. There were pits and traps throughout the place.

Lawrence opened a door to a small dorter with two rows of three beds, all empty. Aramis carried d’Artagnan to one of the middle beds and with a groan of effort, eased him down.

“You look terrible,” Lawrence stated.

“I see your powers of observation have not waned since I left,” Aramis retorted.

“And you smell of the sewers,” Lawrence continued, his narrow nose curling up in disgust.

“Well, there’s a good reason for that,” Aramis said, reaching for the monk’s lantern and hanging it on the hook over d’Artagnan’s bed. He turned to regard Lawrence carefully. “Will you help me?”

“If it will get that smell out of the keep, yes,” Lawrence grumbled.

Aramis shook his head; he’d forgotten about Lawrence’s fastidiousness. He was sure there was a sin the Abbot could associate with this tendency, but if it got them both clean, Aramis wasn’t going to complain. He gave the young monk a list of what he needed, then started in on removing d’Artagnan’s filthy clothes and the sash from around his eyes.

It took both he and Lawrence the better part of an hour to clean the dirt, blood and grime from d’Artagnan, but once clean, the situation only looked half as dire.

“I must get his fever down,” Aramis worried.

“No, you must clean yourself,” Lawrence corrected. “You’ll only make the infection worse if you continue to care for him as you are. And you need rest. Even I can see you’re barely on your feet.”

“Lawrence—“

“Brother Aramis, please,” Lawrence interrupted. “Bathe. Sleep. Anaïs and I will care for this man until you are able to stand without leaning against a wall for support.”

Aramis pulled the vials he stole from the Mission from his pockets and handed them to Lawrence, noting only then that his hands were trembling. “Maybe these will help.”

“I’m sure they will. Now, go.”

Aramis rested a hand on d’Artagnan’s burning shoulder, then staggered away as Lawrence pushed him gently aside. He knew that Lawrence would do everything in his power to help d’Artagnan—not out of loyalty to Aramis, or even concern for a French soldier, but because as far as Lawrence, and any of the other monks in these walls were concerned, d’Artagnan belonged to God. And it was their job to care for God’s creation.

Stripping his filthy clothes felt a bit like shedding a vistage of character. He leaned on the edge of the wooden tub, the room around him twisting lazily as though the Earth itself was attempting to send him spiraling to the ground. Aramis blinked away the dark spots dancing before his burning eyes and stepped gingerly into the bath. It would not due to pass out now, though he felt close to it as he sank beneath the surface of the water.

Finally able to clean the sewer from his skin completely, he dressed in clean breeches and a loose shirt, not bothering with his robes. He knew Lawrence had intended him to travel back to his small cell, but Aramis found himself gravitating to the dorter where his fellow monks treated his friend’s wounds and raging fever. The fact that d’Artagnan was _here—_ in this place, after all this time—was almost surreal. No matter that he was barely alive, he was here, now.

That had to mean something…but what, Aramis wasn’t sure. And he was too tired to contemplate further.

He fell into one of the beds across the room from d’Artagnan and once more fell into a deep sleep listening to d’Artagnan’s ragged breathing. He woke to someone calling his name and blinked in confusion at the sunlight that streamed through the narrow windows directly across from him.

“What? Is it d’Artagnan?” he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and sitting up stiffly. His shoulders were never going to be the same.

“Oh, is that the young man’s name?” Anaïs shouted, his deafness the reason all others in the Monastery were going to lose their hearing. “No, he’s still buried in the depths of sleep, I’m afraid. No telling if he’ll wake before the fever burns him right up.”

Aramis blinked dazedly at the ancient man, marveling at his seemingly blasé approach to life and death, then grabbed his boots, pulling them on and readying to tend to d’Artagnan. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but if the slant of the sun was anything to go by, it was well into afternoon.

“I’ll see to him,” he said, pushing to his feet.

“You misunderstand,” Anaïs tutted, patting Aramis’ loose shirt with a gnarled hand. “It’s not the boy. It’s the two men at the gate.”

“Two men at the ga—“

And then it hit him. _Athos_. He had found them, as he promised he would.

With a parting glance at d’Artagnan—who hadn’t seemed to move a muscle since they’d settled him in bed the night before—Aramis ran from the dorter and headed to the narrow cloister connecting the keep with the courtyard. Dodging the weakened boards on one side of the cloister, he reached the overlook and saw that Athos sat slumped astride a horse with Bauer unconscious and clutched in his grip in front of him.

“You know these men, Brother Aramis?” The Abbot asked from his perch next to Aramis.

“I do—they are fellow Musketeers, Abbot.” Aramis couldn’t quite catch his breath.

The Abbot glanced at him, one disapproving eyebrow raised. “You left that life behind you.”

Aramis nodded. “But not the life of a servant of the Lord,” he countered. “These men are in need of our aid. Who are we if not bound to care for the weary and wounded?”

“They will bring the Spanish to our doorstep,” the Abbot predicted with dread.

Aramis gestured to the traps set throughout the courtyard and leading to the keep. “And God help them if they arrive.”

The Abbot looked once more at Aramis. “You may treat the soldiers with the boy. But once they’re gone, you will need to truly think about your commitment to us, and to God.”

Aramis nodded solemnly, then turned and ran down the stairs and through the courtyard to pull the heavy gate open. Athos kicked the horse forward, looking down at Aramis when the gate closed behind him.

“d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, his voice sounding like a ferrier’s rasp against stone.

“Alive,” was all Aramis could say.

It was enough, it seemed, because at that word Athos exhaled with relief, then tumbled in a cloud of soot and ash from the horse into Aramis’ arms. The only reason Bauer hadn’t followed, Aramis realized as he held his friend against him, was that Athos had lashed the man to the saddle in case he’d passed out on the ride.

Aramis called for help and four monks came to his aide. One took the horse to be cared for in the stables, the others helped Aramis carry Athos and Bauer to the keep. Athos was deposited on one of the beds near d’Artagnan, but one look at Bauer and the Abbot declared him in need of special care. The monks carried him to the infirmary.

Aramis paused between the paths, torn by who to follow.

“Aramis?” He heard Athos call to him.

Decision made, he spared Bauer’s unconscious form a parting glance and said a prayer before heading to Athos’ bed and pushing the struggling man back down.

“Easy, where are you going?”

“d’Artagnan,” Athos muttered.

“Is right next to you,” Aramis reassured. “Now, let me see to those hands.”

“Bauer?”

Athos seemed to have been reduced only to saying names of his friends, Aramis mused, wincing as he unwrapped the hastily bandaged hands.

“He’s being cared for.”

“His arm….”

Aramis swallowed. He’d seen the mangled mess as the monks carried the man past him. “They will do what they can.”

Athos sank back against the pillow and was soon breathing deep. Aramis worked quickly to strip him of his filthy uniform and clean him of grime and blood as best he could, examining him for more wounds. Other than the now-sealed cut on his scalp, his hands seemed to have borne the brunt of damage. Aramis cleaned the wounds and burns thoroughly, then applied a thick poultice and wrapped both appendages in thick, white bandages.

Once Athos was cared for and sleeping, Aramis returned to d’Artagnan’s side. Lawrence was there, applying cool clothes to the young Gascon’s skin, but it seemed he was waging an uphill battle. d’Artagnan’s skin was frighteningly hot to the touch, his battered body shivering beneath the sheets, his head shifting restlessly against the pillow. Lawrence had removed the wrappings around his eyes to drain the infection in the cuts there, and Aramis winced at the blisters he could see along the lad’s swollen cheekbones.

“I’ll take over, Lawrence,” Aramis said quietly. “Get some rest.”

Lawrence nodded, his face pinched with worry—which seemed odd to Aramis. Lawrence didn’t even know d’Artagnan’s name. Didn’t know how the lad’s impetuousness was both a terror and a blessing. Didn’t know how he’d saved them the moment he’d crashed into their lives intent on killing them—or one of them, at least, nor how he’d become their heart in less time that it took to learn how to wield a sword or shoot a musket.

He knew nothing of who d’Artagnan was—what made him so pivotal to the survival of so many—and yet the worry was real as he walked away.

“You fight, d’Artagnan,” Aramis whispered, changing out the cloth across the lad’s eyes. “You stubborn Gascon. This is _not_ how you die.”

“Porthos….” d’Artagnan whispered, his voice whisper-thin.

Aramis started, lifting the cloth to see if the lad’s eyes were trying to open, but it seemed the fever was taking over, drawing out d’Artagnan’s voice. Aramis forced some water into him, then began to grind up a poultice for his eyes and one for his fever. After administering both and wrapping d’Artagnan’s eyes once more, he sat back, looking at his two wounded friends and marveling for a moment how fickle fate was.

Surely it couldn’t be God—He had a plan and a purpose. _He_ wasn’t fickle.

Because if it were God, that would mean Aramis had been destined to leave his friends just so that he could be here when they were both broken—when they were all broken, truth be told.

_People don’t heal each other_ , the Abbot had claimed. Aramis had to wonder about that, because the mere proximity to these two men was a salve to his soul.

“Porthos….” d’Artagnan whispered again.

“We’ll never hear the end of it,” Athos muttered from behind closed lids, “if Porthos finds out he was the first one d’Artagnan called for.”

“He hasn’t said a word until now,” Aramis said, not surprised one bit that Athos had woken at the sound of d’Artagnan’s voice. “Not during the whole long trek here, not during the first night.”

“You’ve seen his wounds?” Athos asked.

“It appears he took the brunt of the blast in his face and upper chest,” Aramis informed him in as calm a voice as he could muster. “I’m worried about…well, a good many things. Deep bruising along his chest could indicate bleeding inside, the fact that he hasn’t woken could mean severe head trauma, then there’s the fever…and there’s no telling if he’ll be able to see once the swelling around his eyes goes down.”

“What a mess,” Athos muttered.

“You’re not much better,” Aramis grumbled.

“Not true,” Athos argued. “At least I can see.”

“Not much to see,” Aramis sighed. “It’s a dorter in a Monastery.”

“There’s you,” Athos pointed out, turning his head to regard his friend calmly. “Have the years been kind?”

Aramis had always like the way Athos asked questions. He never forced anyone to speak anything they weren’t ready to reveal, but he also let it be known exactly what information he was after.

“Occasionally.”

“And have you found what you were looking for?”

Aramis, tipped his head down, his smile hidden. It was Athos’ way of asking if Aramis was ready to come back to them.

“Not yet, Athos,” he confessed.

d’Artagnan groaned slightly, turning his head restlessly on the bed, his hands flinching as if wrapped around a sword hilt. Aramis leaned forward, stroking a cool cloth over d’Artagnan’s bare shoulders, grimacing at the heat rolling off the young Gascon. d’Artagnan began muttering, partly in French, partly in the Gascony dialect—he even thought he heard some Spanish in there…none of it good.

“He curses like a pirate when he’s wounded,” Aramis observed. “Always has.”

“It’s gotten worse since he’s grown closer to Porthos,” Athos said, turned to his side on the bed, resting but able to watch Aramis tend to d’Artagnan. “There is a boy in our unit…grew up in the Court as well. Called Bastien. He’s a bit younger than d’Artagnan, but…I think he may be a bad influence on him when it comes to such things.”

The way Athos spoke of the boy brought Aramis’ eyes up. “They’re close?”

“Ironically so, yes,” Athos replied, watching as Aramis continued to try to cool d’Artagnan with cloths, skipping over a thick scar on his shoulder. “Bastien shot and almost killed d’Artagnan during our first battle.” He nodded at the scar.

Aramis arched a brow. “Nothing brings people closer than attempted homicide.”

“I should know,” Athos’ lips twitched. “You would be proud of him, Aramis,” he sighed tiredly. “He’s become a true leader…though he still chafes at actually following orders.”

“Now who does that remind me of?” Aramis smirked.

d’Artagnan shifted restlessly, a moan of pain sliding through his blistered lips, his neck arching as though his body was bowed backwards from pain. He was shivering and sweating, cheeks flushed.

“This isn’t enough,” Aramis murmured.

“What isn’t?” Athos asked, Aramis’ concern echoing back in Athos’ tone.

The older man leveraged himself up to an elbow, leaning close as Aramis checked d’Artagnan’s bandages, then pulled down the sheets to peer at the deep bruise nearly covering d’Artagnan’s sternum.

“Good Lord,” Athos breathed, seeing the damage for the first time. “How is his heart still beating?”

“He’s strong, Athos,” Aramis assured him. “But he’s too hot. We have to bring this fever down.”

“Athos,” d’Artagnan whispered, his voice cracking, a plea cutting through the word. “Please.”

Aramis looked over at Athos, who in turn lifted his hands in a shrug. “I give him everything he could ever want,” Athos defended.

Aramis arched a brow as d’Artagnan continued to plead for something—relief, he imagined. The names changed as he grew more restless from the fever and pain. When he called for his father, Athos swung his legs around the edge of the cot and sat up. d’Artagnan’s mutterings grew more insistent, calling for his father with such fervor Aramis half expected the man to walk through the door.

“Do you remember Toulouse?” Athos asked quietly, his bandaged hands resting uselessly in his lap, his sad eyes on d’Artagnan’s sweaty profile. “When he took that musket ball and you had to dig it out of him, though you couldn’t even stand, thanks to your own wounds?”

“He called for his father then, too,” Aramis nodded, remembering. “We often think of our fathers in moments of weakness, I suppose.”

d’Artagnan began to suddenly shake, his body twitching and tightening as though the muscles were being twisted by an unseen hand.

“Damn,” Aramis cursed, standing and pulling the sheets free from d’Artagnan’s body, holding the young man in place as best he could while the seizure ran its course.

“What is it? What’s happening to him?” Athos demanded.

“It’s the fever,” Aramis snapped. “Lawrence!” he called suddenly, making Athos startle. The young monk appeared so quickly Aramis suspected he’d been lurking near the doorway all this time. “I need cold water. Not straight from the river—room temperature, understand?”

“Now?” Lawrence asked, hesitant.

d’Artagnan suddenly collapsed back onto the bed making a sound that couldn’t decide between wanting to be a groan or a whimper.

“Yes, _now_.”

Aramis soaked the cloths in the cool water they had nearby and put them on d’Artagnan’s head, his neck, under his arms. Athos stood helplessly by, his eyes on d’Artagnan, unable to do a thing with his hands bandaged as they were. Aramis felt his friend’s pain of not being able to help.

“We did this for Porthos once, do you remember?” Aramis said, hearing the edge of desperation in his voice. He was literally doing all he could for d’Artagnan and it was very possible it wouldn’t be enough.

“He nearly knocked you unconscious as we were trying to get him into the bath,” Athos recalled.

Aramis looked over his shoulder as several monks filed in, one with a large tub and several others with buckets of cool water. They set the tub near d’Artagnan’s bed and poured the water in.

Aramis saw the Abbot standing in the doorway, watching, and ignored him. Let him judge; it didn’t matter who Aramis _wanted_ to be, or who he _thought_ he was. Right now, he was a lifeline to someone very important to him. He was a healer.

And that was all that mattered.

“C’mon, d’Artagnan,” Aramis muttered, gathering the slim man against him, dressed only in his braes, and dragging him over to the tub.

With Lawrence grabbing d’Artagnan’s ankles, they lowered the unconscious man into the cool water, causing d’Artagnan to instinctively gasp. As the water closed over his shoulders, d’Artagnan jolted hard, slamming his back against the edge of the tub, then groaned as his battered body protested. The obvious pain wasn’t enough, however, to stop him from trying to curl into a quivering, panting ball.

“Eh, no…none of that, now,” Aramis pushed at d’Artagnan’s legs, not wanting to constrict his bruised chest more than he had to. He held the man above the water with one arm and ladled water over his head with the other, the water soaking down through the bandages covering the young Gascon’s eyes.

“You listen to me, d’Artagnan,” he said sternly. “You will _not_ be beaten by this. I won’t allow it. I was meant to find you last night,” he said, keenly aware of the Abbot’s eyes on him. “I was searching for a reason and I found you on the barricades. So you will beat this, do you understand? _You_ are my reason.”

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan murmured, his shivering body leaning heavily on Aramis’ arm. Aramis froze at the sound of his name caught in d’Artagnan’s pain-soaked voice, staring at the younger man.

“That’s the first time he’s said your name in years,” Athos revealed.

Aramis felt a pang of sadness at that, thinking of the stories he’d told the children kept safe in the Monastery about the adventures of the brave Musketeers—told them so much, it seemed, they’d picked their favorites, wanting to be just like the brash d’Artagnan, the strong Porthos, the brave Athos, the wise Aramis.

“I’m not surprised,” Aramis murmured. “He would want to put me far away from him after I left.”

“You’re wrong, my friend,” Athos shook his head. “It’s because it would hurt too much. Not talking about you—for d’Artagnan at least—is a sign of how much you mean to him.” Athos sighed. “It’s Porthos you have to worry about there.”

Aramis kept d’Artagnan in the cool water until the tips of his fingers began to shrivel, then bade Lawrence help him return him to the bed. Slightly cooled, re-dressed and re-bandaged, d’Artagnan seemed to settle for a bit. Aramis forced more of the tonic into him, hoping the herbs would defeat the fever and overcome the infection long enough for d’Artagnan to actually wake.

If he would just _wake_ , Aramis would feel his chances improve.

“He almost left, you know,” Athos said drowsily from where he lay on his back once more, his hands resting on his chest.

“Who, d’Artagnan?” Aramis asked, surprised.

Athos shook his head. “Porthos. There was an…an _incident_. Involving refugees who were displaced by our General. It troubled Porthos. More than I’d realized.” He sighed, turning his head to look at d’Artagnan’s bandaged face. “I came upon he and d’Artagnan arguing in their tent one night. Bastien had been banished to the outer fire while they…conversed. Porthos was disillusioned. He couldn’t find his path through the chaos we were living.”

Athos closed his eyes briefly, then looked across d’Artagnan to where Aramis sat, listening. “In the end, he stayed because d’Artagnan told him that he didn’t know what he’d do with another of his brothers gone. It was the closest they came to actually talking about you in almost three years.”

Athos slept then.

Despite his own exhaustion, Aramis couldn’t bring himself to leave d’Artagnan’s side. The fever spiked again and d’Artagnan tossed restlessly, calling out to his brothers, his wife, his family, begging for relief. And though Aramis knew he couldn’t see him, and in his delirium didn’t truly know Aramis was there, he calmed when Aramis spoke to him, turning his face toward the sound of Aramis’ voice as if it were a light in his darkness.

Aramis talked to him about the years in the Monastery, the loneliness, the comfort. He told him of the way the stones around the altar dug into his knees and how his missed the feel of the sword in his hand. He told him of the children he was helping and the feeling of complete peace that would sometimes descend on him at night, as if all was truly right in his world.

d’Artagnan suffered through the night and into the next day. Athos managed to find a way to eat without disturbing his bandages too much, then went to check on Bauer, never letting Aramis know how much he’d heard of the vigil the night before. Lawrence relieved Aramis mid-morning so that he could rest, but Aramis was back the following afternoon, his stories turning into prayers that d’Artagnan would find relief, no matter what God’s definition of that word might be.

He simply couldn’t bear to watch his friend suffer. Ragged breathing replaced the groans of pain, incoherent murmuring took the place of actual names. Aramis was afraid that if this continued much longer d’Artagnan’s heart would simply give out from the strain of keeping his body alive. They resorted to another cool bath that evening and afterward, d’Artagnan seemed to get some real sleep. Enough for Athos to convince Aramis to step away from the room for a short bit.

“They had to take Bauer’s arm,” Athos informed him. “His days as a soldier are over.”

“And a Musketeer,” Aramis said dejectedly. “What will he do?”

Athos sighed. “If he survives the blood loss and shock…,” he shrugged. “I don’t know. Fighting and brotherhood are all the man knows.” He glanced over at Aramis. “I sympathize with him.”

“He could stay here,” Aramis suggested.

Athos shook his head. “Bauer was quite angry with God long before he lost his arm. Since Grisier,” he recalled. “This…situation hasn’t helped matters any.”

“Would it help him to see d’Artagnan?”

Athos tilted his head in consideration. “If our young Gascon wakes, yes. But I believe it would kill Bauer to see him this way. And I am afraid I mean that literally.”

Aramis nodded, looking down into the courtyard from their perch at an upper window of the keep.

“Aramis,” Athos said, the tone in his voice shifting swiftly. “Do you see those riders?”

Aramis looked up, peering through the dying light of day. Six riders approached the gates of the Monastery. He could see flashes of red among the black of their uniforms. He whispered a curse, then turned quickly, running to find the Abbot. Just as he encountered the man at the door of the refectory, a voice called out loudly in Spanish.

The Abbot stared at Aramis, asking silently.

“He’s demanding to be let in,” Aramis translated. “Says they took the town and are seeking alms.”

The Abbot narrowed his eyes. “Find Lawrence,” he said. “Tell him to take the children to the room behind the scriptorium. You go up to the dorter with the soldiers—take the one in the infirmary with you—and bar the doors.”

“Don’t you want us to help you fight?” Aramis asked, baffled.

The Abbot lifted a brow. “This is not a time for a brawl, Brother Aramis,” he said with utter calm, “but for a coup de main.”

Aramis folded his lips in agreeable surprise, nodding once, then moved to follow his Abbot’s instructions. Lawrence helped him carry Bauer to the dorter before taking the children to hide. Aramis settled the wounded solider on the bed across from d’Artagnan, barred the door as instructed, then climbed up next to Athos to peer out through the narrow window at the spectacle below. They couldn’t hear what was being said, other than the tone of warning from the Abbot where he stood on the overlook.

The Spanish soldiers broke the door down and rode into the courtyard.

“Something tells me they’re going to wish they hadn’t done that,” Athos replied, oddly calm for someone who couldn’t even grip a weapon to defend himself.

Two of the soldiers were immediately entangled in nets that caught up both their horses and themselves. The other four dismounted and pulled their swords. The Abbot continued to warn them, but they paid no heed, angered at having been caught off-guard by monks.

_French_ monks, at that.

“Eh, shouldn’t have done that,” Athos murmured, his grin as relaxed as Aramis had seen.

Pushing forward toward the keep, two men fell through weakened holes in the courtyard to the storerooms below, another one found his flowing cape caught on a tangle of briers as several ropes of the thorny nuisances dropped down the moment he hit the stairs. The last soldier managed to make it all the way to the cloister.

“Walk on the left side,” Aramis warned, sotto vocce. A sudden cry of surprise and fear was heard as the man fell through the weakened floor and landed in an unceremonious heap in the shallow stream below. Aramis glanced at Athos. “He didn’t walk on the left.”

“No. No he did not,” Athos agreed, lips quirking in blatant amusement.

They watched as the six soldiers managed to extract themselves from their various traps and limped back out through the gate, leading their horses. The monks closed and barred the gate once more, replacing the broken bar and center stop. Athos made his way over to Bauer, talking to him in soft, reassuring tones, as Aramis checked on d’Artagnan, bracing himself for another spike in fever.

For a moment, when he felt the younger man’s forehead, his heart stuttered and he checked to make sure d’Artagnan was still breathing.

“Athos.”

He looked over at the other man and saw him pale at the tone.

“Is he…?”

“He’s cool,” Aramis said, his voice trembling slightly with surprise. He looked back down at d’Artagnan, noting the sheets beneath him soaked with sweat from the fever breaking. “He’s…the fever is gone.”

“He’ll live?” Bauer asked, his voice weak and raspy.

“If he wakes,” Aramis nodded. “He’ll live.”

Athos sank down on the bed next to Bauer and hung his head, his bandaged hands hanging between his knees. “Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God.”

The four men slept through the night, Lawrence, Anaïs, and even the Abbot coming to check on them several times. When Aramis woke the next morning, the first thing he did was to mix up a tonic for d’Artagnan, hoping today would be the day his young friend woke. As he made his way to the larder for more herbs, he was stopped by the Abbot.

“The soldiers cannot stay much longer,” the Abbot warned.

“What? But they’re…they’re still very weak! Bauer can’t sit up on his own and d’Artagnan—“

“If they remain here, they are not soldiers. Do you understand?” The Abbot interrupted him. “The Spanish will return and the next time we may not be able to deter them. If they find us harboring French soldiers…everyone in the Monastery will suffer.”

Aramis swallowed, nodding. He had to get them to safety somehow, but…how? He made his way back to the room, but was stopped once more, this time by Athos.

“d’Artagnan is showing signs of waking,” Athos informed him. Aramis smiled, beginning to move forward, but was halted by Athos’ bandaged hand. “What are you prepared to do, my friend?”

Aramis frowned, confused. “Other than make sure our Gascon remains in the land of the living?”

“Are you leaving with us, or are you staying here?” Athos placed the choice before him, his eyes flat, giving nothing away.

“Athos….”

“Because if you leave with us, you can walk in there right now and give him hope, give him something to lean on,” Athos continued. “But if you’re going to stay, if you’re going to force him to go through the pain of leaving you behind again…I think it would be best if one of the monks helped me tend him when he’s awake.”

Aramis felt his eyes burn, the emotion there so strong and sudden he didn’t have time to temper it down. For a moment Athos’ eyes echoed the emotion, swimming with stifled sorrow before he pulled it back in and caged it tightly, as he always did.

Aramis was not that skilled. He swallowed hard, lifting his chin as if the motion itself would dispel the rawness exposed in his expression.

“I’m not finished here, Athos,” was his choked reply. “I can’t…. Not yet.”

Athos nodded. “I know,” he whispered. “Don’t despair, Aramis. We’ll find our way back together again.”

Aramis sent Lawrence into the room with the herbs and watched from the doorway, hidden in the shadows, as d’Artagnan stirred, his voice rough, groggy, as he called for Athos, his hands reaching for the bandage around his eyes. Aramis reached up instinctively just as Lawrence caught the Gascon’s hands and eased them down, gently explaining that he had to leave the bandages alone. He made d’Artagnan drink the tonic and Aramis knew that he’d be asleep again soon—a healing sleep this time. When the young Gascon was breathing easily once more, Aramis entered the room, nodding his thanks to Lawrence as the monk left the room.

“I asked Lawrence if he could get a message to our camp, send for Bastien and a wagon to take us back to the camp physician,” Athos told him. “The longer we remain, the more danger you’re in.”

“I’m not going with you,” Bauer spoke up from where he was propped against a mound of pillows, his bandaged stump an incongruous image against his broad, scarred chest. “There’s nothing left for me there, Athos.”

The two former Musketeers turned to face their comrade, nodding somberly.

“Where will you go?” Athos asked.

“When I can stand,” he said, “I think I’ll help around here for a while. I owe them for saving my life.”

“What should we tell d’Artagnan?” Athos continued. “You’re the main reason he’s survived as long as he has, you know.”

Bauer’s smile was a ghost of his former light. “That’s not true and you know it,” he scoffed. “That boy is a force to be reckoned with. You were right, Athos,” he let his eyes drift to d’Artagnan’s sleeping form. “He’ll be the greatest of us all.”

“If he knows you’re here, he’ll try to come after you. Bring you back,” Aramis warned him. “Believe me.”

Bauer sighed. “Then don’t tell him. Don’t tell anyone.”

“And mark you a deserter?” Athos shook his head. “No, my friend.”

“Athos,” Bauer countered, sinking a bit lower in the pillows. “No one but you and a few monks know I survived,” he glanced quickly at Aramis. “No offense.”

Aramis lifted a hand and folded his lips down in a _none taken_ gesture.

“As far as that mad General leading this army knows, I died on the barricades.”

“And you’d be okay with that?” Aramis asked, genuinely curious.

Bauer looked over at d’Artagnan. “He’s going to make it out of this war. Go home to that pretty wife. Have a life. Lead the bloody Musketeers.” He glanced back at the men. “And I’m not the same man I was when I played a part in that future.” He gestured to his missing limb. “I don’t know who I am now. I need to…remake myself.”

“You may stay as long as you need, Brother Bauer,” the Abbot spoke up from where he lurked the doorway, always watching. “And Lawrence will leave in the morning with your missive,” he nodded to Athos.

Aramis slept across the room from d’Artagnan that night. He listened as Athos sat with the young Gascon when he woke once more, this time clearer than before.

“Everything hurts,” d’Artagnan confessed softly when Athos asked how he felt. “F-feels like I was kicked in the chest by…many…many horses.”

“That’s what standing in front of a cannon blast will do to you.”

“Where are we?”

“A Monastery close to Le Mans,” Athos answered truthfully.

“A Monastery,” d’Artagnan repeated softly. Aramis ached to hear the young man ask for him, but there was nothing but screaming silence for a long stretch of time.

“My eyes burn,” d’Artagnan told Athos. “Will I…do you think I’ll be able to see again?”

Athos didn’t hesitate. “I am sure of it. As long as you stop messing with the bandages.”

“Sorry.”

“I have more medicine for you.”

“It will make me sleep,” d’Artagnan protested.

“You need sleep,” Athos countered.

“I’ll dream,” d’Artagnan continued. “I don’t want to dream anymore.”

Aramis draped his arm over his eyes, forcing himself to stay silent.

“Athos?”

“I’m here,” Athos replied, calming d’Artagnan’s panicky tone.

“Porthos wasn’t there, right? I keep dreaming that Porthos was there and the fire took him.”

“Porthos is in Versailles.”

“But Bauer was there.”

“Yes,” Athos said carefully.

Aramis looked over at Bauer in the bed next to him and saw the man also lay awake listening, both of them complicit in this deception only made possible because d’Artagnan was too wounded to see them.

“I pushed him away from the cannon.”

“You did.”

“But it wasn’t enough.”

Athos was quiet for a long moment and Aramis wondered if he would confess, but then he took a slow, measured breath and Aramis knew that his words were meant for more than d’Artagnan’s ears.

“Bauer fought bravely and without any sense of self preservation. His only thoughts were of us, his brothers. And his sacrifice saved us, made it so we were able to escape and heal. Made it so that we can now return to Porthos.”

A choked sound of misery slipped free from the bandaged figure on the bed.

“War makes its own soldiers, d’Artagnan,” Athos said softly. “And as a soldier, there was no one better than our friend Bauer.”

d’Artagnan dragged in a slow, ragged breath and swallowed. “Hurts to cry,” he confessed with a weak laugh. “Which is good, I guess. Bauer would hate that I’m crying over him anyway.”

Aramis glanced at Bauer once more and saw the man’s trembling smile, tears of his own drawing tracks on either side of his face.

“Rest, d’Artagnan,” Athos implored. “We’ll be making our way back to camp soon enough.”

That night, d’Artagnan’s dreams woke them all twice more, but Athos was there to reassure him, give him a voice to follow in through the added darkness of his wounded eyes and bandages. The sleeping draught Athos gave him after the second nightmare kept the young Gascon unaware of the monks and Aramis moving Bauer to his own cell the next day to continue his recuperation.

The older soldier promised to send word when he settled on a new location.

“Athos,” Bauer called as his Captain turned to leave the room. “Thank you, for what you said to d’Artagnan. About me.”

Athos nodded once. “Every word was true.”

The next day, with d’Artagnan fever still at bay, Aramis stayed clear of the room, and was able to meet the seemingly infamous Bastien as he drove the wagon up to the gate.

“Your man said that d’Artagnan was hurt, needed help getting back,” Bastien greeted Aramis. “What’s he gotten himself into this time?”

“Blow up by cannon fire,” Aramis answered, watching as the dark-haried lad lifted his chin in reaction, his blue eyes tinged with worry—yet guarded. He didn’t know Aramis enough to show true concern.

“He’ll live?” Bastien asked, tightly.

Aramis nodded. “With more care and rest, he should recover.” He narrowed his eyes at the young man. “Bauer didn’t make it.”

Bastien swallowed, looking away. As Aramis watched, the younger man drew in a slow, even breath, nodded, then looked back. “And the Captain?”

“He’s with d’Artagnan,” Aramis replied. “His hands were badly burned, but he will heal.”

“No doubt from pulling his men free of the barricade, the mad bastard,” Bastien muttered under his breath. “How can I help?”

Aramis saw immediately what d’Artagnan liked about the lad. He seemed as impetuous as d’Artagnan, but held a sort of wisdom in his blue eyes that had taken d’Artagnan years to cultivate. Aramis explained why he didn’t join them in the room.

“d’Artagnan is very weak, and the damage to his eyes is fairly severe. He needs to focus all of his energy on healing, not on coming back to convince me of my place in the world.” He looked down and away. “He needs to not think of us at all.”

Bastien nodded sagely. “I get it now,” he said over his shoulder as he headed up to the keep. “Why there’s something broken about the three of them.”

Aramis tilted his head in question.

“You’re their missing piece,” he concluded, walking backwards for a few steps so he could meet Aramis’ eyes, then turning and making his way up to the dorter.

Aramis smiled sadly in response. He waited until he saw Athos lead the way, Bastien and two monks carrying d’Artagnan down to the wagon hammocked in a blanket. He stayed back, holding the horses as Lawrence and Bastien situated d’Artagnan in the back of the wagon, d’Artagnan groggily commenting about finally being treated in the manner he deserved before he once more passed out completely.

Athos made his way to the front of the wagon and Aramis. “You are never far from us. Remember that.”

“I know,” Aramis said quietly, nodding.

“Know it here,” Athos pointed to Aramis’ heart with his bandaged hand, “not just here,” he pointed to his head.

Aramis tried to smile, but the muscles seemed frozen. “Athos, if he cannot see—“

“He will see,” Athos replied as if by his will alone he would make it true. “He’ll see.”

Aramis nodded again. Bastien climbed into the driver’s seat and took the reins from Aramis.

“He’s out again,” he reported. “Probably best anyway. This trip is going to be hell on those damn bruises.”

Aramis felt his face relax into a genuine grin, glancing from Bastien back toward Athos. “I see what you mean.”

“This war won’t last forever, Aramis,” Athos said to him quietly. “And when it’s over…who knows how we’ll all need to,” he glanced up at the keep where Bauer still rested, “remake ourselves.”

Aramis closed the distance between them and pulled the older man close in an embrace that said all the words he couldn’t bring himself to utter. Stepping back, he helped Athos climb into the back of the wagon next to d’Artagnan, then nodded at Bastien. As he watched them drive away from the Monastery, he sensed the Abbot approach him.

“Remember what I said, Aramis,” the Abbot reminded him quietly. “People never become anything but what they’ve always been.”

Aramis watched the wagon grow smaller in the distance. He was a seeker of truth and peace. He was a man of conviction and passion. He was a soldier. He was a friend. He was a brother.

And he was certain the war would bring them back together once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** If there are those among you who thought Aramis’ journey through the sewers of Le Mans felt a bit familiar, it may be because I repurposed the idea from my favorite musical of all time: _Les Miserables_. We’re nearing the finish line—another Bridge and then we’ll hear from Athos.


	7. Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. Caution for images of war and all that comes with it.

“All war is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking animal.” – Steinbeck

**

**Chapter 7: Bridge**

At some point during Aramis’ story, d’Artagnan had started pacing.

He hadn’t said a word, but Constance could see his shoulders were tense and his hands curled into fists at his side. The others in the room hadn’t reacted, if they’d noticed. They were consumed by Aramis’ words—even Athos hadn’t known the whole of the events that had transpired during that time.

When Aramis stopped speaking an almost suffocating quiet stretched across the two small rooms Constance and d’Artagnan shared. It felt as if everyone held their breath. And then, after Constance counted several of her own heartbeats, Porthos and d’Artagnan spoke at once.

“I have no memory of this,” d’Artagnan confessed.

“I can’t believe you carried him all that way,” Porthos marveled.

Constance watched Athos and Aramis shift their gaze between their two friends in a move that would be almost comical were it not for the palpable emotion choking the air around her. Athos kept his eyes on d’Artagnan, while Aramis offered Porthos a small smile.

“He may appear slim,” Aramis said softly, “but he’s heavier than he looks.”

“Don’t I know it,” Porthos chuffed. “All muscle, that one.”

“I thought it was Jon-Luc,” d’Artagnan continued, oblivious to the attempts at levity carrying on across the room from him.

He wasn’t looking at Aramis—he wasn’t looking at any of them, really. Constance ached to go over to him, hold him tight enough to heal that broken look in his eyes. But something stopped her—energy like a held breath keeping her at bay.

d’Artagnan shoved a trembling hand through his long hair, pushing it away from his face, the candlelight catching the crescent-shaped scar at the edge of his left eye and reminding her of the reality of Aramis’ words. He wasn’t pacing any longer; he was dangerously still.

“Jon-Luc had much to do with your recovery,” Athos offered, his voice rough from disuse.

d’Artagnan looked up then and Constance felt the other three in the room draw back, though his eyes were for Athos only.

“I have _no memory_ of that time, Athos,” d’Artagnan repeated, his words clipped. “You told me _nothing_ of this.”

Constance pulled her knees close, making herself small, wishing she could be invisible. She felt like an intruder—though this involved her as well, in a way. It was after all her husband who’d been hauled through a sewer, clinging to life. She looked over at Athos and watched as he closed himself off with a blink, emotion emptying from his eyes, his shoulders squaring up, his chin lifting.

“I didn’t trust that you would stay where you were needed,” Athos answered, his tone flat. He wasn’t defending himself; he was stating fact. 

d’Artagnan turned then, huffing a humorless laugh, and Constance had a fleeting thought of locking the door, keeping him in there with them to talk this out. He looked poised to escape. Evidently, Porthos had the same thought as he chose that moment to rise from the backwards-facing chair he’d been perched on, refill his wine, then lean casually against the door.

“You mean, on a battlefield,” d’Artagnan retorted. “Watching our friends die.”

“Yes,” Athos answered succinctly.

d’Artagnan shook his head and Constance could see entire paragraphs of protest gathering steam in his eyes. “You let us think Bauer was dead.”

“Yes,” Athos repeated.

“We _mourned_ him!”

“It was at his request,” Aramis interjected softly, clearly unable to leave Athos to bear the brunt of d’Artagnan’s anger. “He stayed at Douai for several months after you left,” Aramis continued, looking at Athos, then Porthos before resting his eyes once more on d’Artagnan. “He learned a different way to ride, to hold a sword, to do…just about everything.”

“Where did he go when he left?” Athos asked.

Aramis shook his head. “He said something about returning to what he knew—but it didn’t seem like he meant being a soldier or Musketeer.”

“He…,” d’Artagnan’s throat worked furiously as he fought for control of his emotions. “He grew up on the docks. Slinging fish, he said.”

“Perhaps he found somewhere away from war,” Athos said quietly.

No one spoke for several moments. Constance watched for a sign that d’Artagnan had accepted Athos’ choice to keep the truth from him, but the man was strung tightly, keeping himself away from the others as much as possible without physically leaving the room. She could see his shoulders moving as he breathed, short bursts of air that did little to calm him.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I was to see you in one piece, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said finally. He was looking down at the floor and a small smile crept over his face. “I had prayed you would be safe and that you would be able to see—and it looks like at least one of my prayers were answered.”

“How?” d’Artagnan asked brokenly. “If I was as bad as you say.”

Aramis shook his head. “Perhaps it _was_ Jon-Luc.”

They both looked at Athos, who sighed. “Your fever returned on the trip back to the camp,” Athos said quietly. “Bastien did what he could, caring for you and driving the wagon—because I was utterly useless with my hands as they were. But you were…,” Athos shook his head.

He looked up at d’Artagnan and Constance realized belatedly that her husband had moved closer to his mentor as he spoke, still shimmering with anger and betrayal.

“Jon-Luc tried many things—herbal remedies his father had taught him, though he cursed the man’s name with each new combination,” Athos lifted a shoulder as if to say _what can you do_. “There wasn’t much Porthos and I could do but wait.” He glanced across the room. “Porthos wanted to take you back to Paris, but the General wouldn’t hear of it.”

d’Artagnan and Constance both looked at Porthos, who was staring into his wine. Constance realized he hadn’t said a word since his first declaration of surprise at Aramis’ fortitude in saving d’Artagnan.

“And then…one day, you woke,” Athos revealed. “You remembered the barricade, but nothing else. You didn’t even recall saving Bauer.”

“Because, according to you, I didn’t.” d’Artagnan’s voice was venom.

“Jon-Luc helped you gradually grow accustomed to the light once more. As soon as you could leave the medic’s tent, the General had a sword in your hand.” Athos sighed again, then finished his wine in one gulp.

“You lied to me,” d’Artagnan accused and Constance barely resisted pressing her hand against her heart in retaliation of the sharp pang his voice elicited. He moved closer to where Athos was seated, his fists clenched, his body bent forward. “I could have gone after Aramis…found Bauer—“

Athos shoved to his feet, sending d’Artagnan back a step. “That is _exactly_ why I lied!”

“You had no right!” d’Artagnan bellowed.

“I had _every_ right!” Athos fired back with equal measure. “I was—I _am_ —your Captain. It is my _duty_ to keep you from harm and I _failed_ , d’Artagnan. I failed on those barricades—“

“No,” d’Artagnan shook his head, hands coming up as if to grab Athos, then curling into fists to keep his fingers at bay. “No, you don’t get to do that. This is not about you _not_ protecting me; this is about you _lying_ to us!”

Athos brought his chin up and Constance could see there was no apology in the man.

“What I did,” Athos said with increased calm, “I did to keep you safe. To keep Porthos safe. You don’t think I knew you’d want to go after them? Try to return them to us? You don’t think _I_ wanted that?”

This confession brought d’Artagnan’s own chin up in surprise.

“You think I wanted us broken and scattered?” Athos pressed on. “That I _wanted_ Porthos moving through life like he was missing a limb, or you running recklessly into battle like it didn’t matter if you were cut down?”

Constance stifled the small whimper behind her hand.

“Then _why_ didn’t you tell us?” d’Artagnan demanded, his words desperate.

“Because it wasn’t about what I wanted, dammit!” Athos shouted. “Aramis was at that Monastery for a _reason_ , d’Artagnan. Not because he was ordered there, because he _needed_ to be there!”

Constance looked at Aramis; he was pale, his eyes burning from his face like twin coals. He held himself unnaturally still, watching the scene play out before him.

“And Bauer,” Athos shook his head once, “was not ready to have someone else decide his fate. Aramis was right; Bauer needed to remake himself and he could not have done so if he were worried about you. If he were watching out for you.”

d’Artagnan’s exhale trembled and Constance saw his fists begin to relax.

“Aramis pulled you out of that burning town—carried you on his back for _miles_ —because we couldn’t bear to lose you,” Athos said, the energy draining from him with each word. “He chose your life over his vows, over his conscience, and I…I _couldn’t_ ask him to do it again when we left.”

Constance watched as d’Artagnan looked from Athos to Aramis, his hands now lax at his sides, breath huffing from him and making his shoulders tremble.

“I’m so sorry, Aramis.”

Constance blinked in surprise, her eyes darting to the door and Porthos’ curled form, having expected the next words to come from her husband rather than the man blocking their escape.

Porthos looked up, his expression one of misery, his empty cup hanging from numb fingers. “I was so…so caught up in all the…all the pain and chaos…and the fact that you weren’t there…I never realized ‘ow ‘ard it was on you.”

Aramis swallowed and Constance realized she was crying, her fist pressed against her mouth as she watched something uncoil within Porthos, stretching him out and enabling him to finally breathe free for the first time since she’d welcomed him home to the garrison.

“I thought you’d abandoned us,” he confessed. “I was…selfish.” Aramis started to speak, but Porthos held up a hand to stop him. “Thing is…when you saved d’Artagnan, you saved us all. Because…I don’t know if I would’ve survived if I’d lost either of them,” he waved his hand in the direction of Athos and d’Artagnan, “like I thought I’d lost you. I wouldn’t be standing ‘ere today, I can tell you that much.”

Aramis stared at his friend, something not quite gratitude, but more than relief, shifting across his face. Then he smiled, and he was himself once more—his color returning, the lines of tension easing, his eyes lighting up in that way the made even Constance’s heart flutter a bit.

“You’re welcome,” he said simply, drawing a grin from Porthos.

“Gotta admit,” Porthos shrugged, moving to refill his goblet with wine. “Felt like old times getting the best of that bastard Marcheaux today.”

“We were pretty great, weren’t we?” Aramis agreed.

“Eh, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Porthos held up a hand as he swung a leg back across the chair he’d vacated earlier. “I was _great_. You…you were good.”

Aramis grinned, but then looked back across the room toward d’Artagnan and the expression slipped from his face. d’Artagnan was no longer squared off with Athos; he’d moved to face the cold fireplace, one hand on the stone, his head bowed as if gravity were simply too strong a force to contend with any longer. Constance hadn’t moved from her spot curled up by the chair d’Artagnan had originally been sitting in. She watched as Aramis took a breath and moved past Athos to stand behind d’Artagnan.

“Despite what you may think,” Aramis began, causing d’Artagnan’s shoulders to flinch slightly, “I _can_ make my own decisions.”

Constance blinked in surprise and d’Artagnan turned around quickly, gaping at Aramis.

“What?” d’Artagnan exclaimed.

Athos and Porthos exchanged confused looks and Athos drew slightly closer to the big man, as though bracing for a fight.

“I’ve been doing it for some time,” Aramis continued, his expression stony and serious. “Your anger at Athos for denying you the ability to return to Douai is misplaced.” He crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his chin down so that he was staring d’Artagnan in the eyes. “In fact, it’s irrelevant. So end this.”

d’Artagnan gaped for a few beats longer, then swallowed and looked over at Athos, contrition in his whole bearing.

“Athos, I—“

Athos lifted a hand. “Don’t worry, d’Artagnan,” he interrupted. “I’ve been much angrier for much less and you’ve forgiven me time and again.”

d’Artagnan nodded. “Still.”

Athos smiled, accepting.

Aramis leaned back toward Porthos, saying in a stage whisper, “I’m really glad that worked. Those would have been terrible last words.”

“Too right,” Porthos nodded.

Constance took a breath—in what felt like the first time in hours—and pushed to her feet, apparently startling all four men. “I’ll get more wine,” she said. “I expect you all to be here when I return.”

They nodded, looking slightly sheepish at forgetting that she had been there, d’Artagnan especially. When she returned with wine, bread, and cheese, someone had lit a fire to ward off the chill in the room and the four men were sprawled on various pieces of furniture—with the exception of d’Artagnan who was sitting on the floor by the hearth, leaning tiredly against the stone—talking about Feron. Constance refilled cups and handed out food, offering what she could by way of information regarding how Paris had fallen in the last four years.

“Seems the bleedin’ Cardinal was a better leader,” Porthos commented. “Or maybe ‘e was just easier to fool.”

“Almost makes me miss the old bast—er, man,” Aramis hastily corrected, causing Porthos to guffaw.

Constance sat next to d’Artagnan, pleased when he took her hand in his and threaded their fingers together. She leaned against him, savoring his warmth, and listened as Aramis and Porthos recalled their antics with the Cardinal, which led them to recalling antics from years past, drawing Athos into the conversation easily enough. It was good to hear them reminisce—even better to hear them laugh.

It was sometime later that she realized d’Artagnan had grown heavy against her, his head slumping slightly to the side. She reached over to wake him when Athos stopped her.

“I guarantee you he didn’t sleep while in the Chatelêt last night,” he said. “Let him rest.”

“But if you’re leaving—“ Constance began.

“I do believe I’ll stay ‘ere tonight, if it’s all the same to you,” Porthos said quietly. Aramis and Athos nodded, looking over at her. Wine had made them sleepy, memories had made them relaxed, and she could tell no one wanted to be apart for the moment.

“What was that you were saying about the horse and the rowboat?” she asked Porthos by way of agreement, returning him to a story he’d been telling.

It was nearing dawn when Athos stoked the fire for the last time. Porthos had fallen asleep with his chair tipped back, feet up on the table, chin to chest. Aramis sat against the wall, eyes staring sightlessly into the flames, memories so thick around him she could practically collect them with a butterfly net. As Athos settled against the hearth opposite where she and d’Artagnan sat, she felt her husband shift against her, his head turning away.

Frowning, Constance leaned forward slightly to peer at d’Artagnan’s face. His breathing began to increase, drawing Athos’ attention as well.

“d’Artagnan,” Constance whispered, feeling Aramis’ eyes on her suddenly. “Wake up.”

His hands twitched, as though reaching for something, and his breath began to hammer from parted lips, a frown digging furrows into his brow.

“Charles,” she tried, remembering it had worked the last time. She rested her hand on his chest, rubbing it slightly. “Charles, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

d’Artagnan’s eyes flew open and he sat forward, staring around the room with no recognition. Constance reached for him again just as he pushed her away from him, scrambling to his feet in a harried, backwards trek across the room, his hip crashing against the table and knocking Porthos’ feet from their perch. The big man woke with a stuttering protest, but the moment he saw d’Artagnan’s wide-eyed expression, the younger man working his way back toward a corner, he was instantly alert.

“d’Artagnan,” Porthos said, his voice a slap of sound against the quiet room. “Look at me.”

To Constance’s amazement, d’Artagnan obeyed, but looked so young and lost she wanted to wrap her arms around him.

“That’s it, you just stay lookin’ at me. You’re ‘ome with us, you remember?”

d’Artagnan blinked, confused, then looked slowly around the room.

“You’re not back there anymore,” Porthos continued, standing in a crouch, one hand out, and approached d’Artagnan as though calming a wounded animal. “You’re safe. We’re all safe.”

d’Artagnan blinked again, frowning as though he couldn’t apply meaning to that word. Porthos reached him and carefully rested his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. The contact seemed to bring him fully aware and he darted shamed eyes from Athos to Aramis and finally to Constance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Constance.”

“You don’t have to apologize for anything,” she assured him.

Her words seemed to fall on deaf ears as d’Artagnan rubbed his face vigorously as though to erase the last vestiges of the dream. Porthos hadn’t removed his hand and Constance saw his fingers tighten on d’Artagnan’s narrow shoulder. d’Artagnan dropped his hands to his sides and looked over at the big man as thought seeking a lifeline.

“It happened. Didn’t it?” he asked softly, his voice sounding achingly young. “Not like with…Bauer?”

Constance saw Athos close his eyes and fold in on himself slightly, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It ‘appened,” Porthos nodded, with a pained expression. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

Looking a bit like himself for a moment, d’Artagnan waved away Porthos’ concerned with a hand. “’s okay. Just a dream,” he swallowed. “I knew…I just…,” he shook his head, shrugging off Porthos’ hand and offering an imitation of his normal smile. “Dreams,” he said, as if that explained everything.

He took a breath and straightened up from where he’d pressed his back to the wall, but then he saw Constance and his face folded into something too old to be her brash, impetuous husband.

“I need some air,” he said to her. “I’ll be back later.”

Before anyone could stop him, d’Artagnan moved quickly across the room and through the door, leaving Constance’s extended hand and words of protest in his wake. For the longest moment no one spoke. Constance sank tiredly into a vacant chair, wrapping her arms around herself when what she really wanted to do was hold the man who’d just walked out of the room so tightly he’d meld with her.

“What happened to him?” Aramis asked suddenly.

Constance looked up at Athos and Porthos, watching as entire paragraphs passed between them in a glance.

“I know what war does to men,” Aramis pressed, “but this is worse than war. This is…,” he swallowed, his eyes darting between his two oldest friends, “this is Savoy.”

Porthos nodded, rubbing the back of neck. “You’re not wrong there,” he said quietly.

“It’s not a tale for a thin morning,” Athos said, declaratively. “d’Artagnan will return once he clears his head.” He looked over at Constance. “Meet me at Treville’s office—“ he stumbled to a stop, then picked up, “ _my_ office when he does and we’ll tell you together.”

“Athos…,” Porthos cautioned.

“It will be good for him to share it,” Athos agrued against the unspoken warning. “Festering like it has is the reason he doesn’t sleep.”

“He has a point,” Aramis concurred. “If I didn’t have you to share Savoy with, I…,” he shook his head. “It would not have been good.”

“Already wasn’t good,” Porthos pointed out.

“Well, it would have been worse,” Aramis lifted a brow.

“Clean up, eat,” Athos ordered, straightening his shoulders and looking every inch their Captain. “When d’Artagnan returns, we’ll talk.”

Constance did as she was ordered. She even fell asleep for a bit. But when the mid-day meal was served to the cadets and she wasn’t able to find d’Artagnan anywhere in the garrison, she stormed into Athos’ office with fire in her eyes—not surprised in the least to see Aramis and Porthos already there. They stood in fresh clothes, hats in hands, swords and rapiers in scabbards, ready for a call to duty. It was clear to her the moment they looked up at her entrance they’d been hoping she was d’Artagnan.

She pushed past the two men and slapped her hands flat onto Athos’ desk, leaning forward. “It appears you were wrong.”

Athos brought his chin up. “Clearly.”

“So where is he, then?”

Athos glanced past her at the two man she could feel standing at her back.

“No, Athos,” Constance shook her head, demanding his attention. “Answer _me_. What _happened_ to him?”

“Constance, I can’t—“

“NO!” She snapped, straightening up and turning to face the other two men, then backing up so that she could take all three in with a glance. “His letters to me were filled with mundane activity and witty descriptions of a cartoonish General.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “He said nothing of…of the horrific scars that litter his body or the traumatic events that he survived only to be haunted by them whenever he sleeps.”

“’e didn’t want to worry you—“ Porthos started.

“Well, that’s just too damn bad,” Constance turned on him, feeling a modicum of satisfaction when the bigger man draw back slightly, “because I’m plenty worried now!”

Athos sighed and she felt another excuse pending. Another reason that she had to stand on the other side of the darkness they’d all survived—the darkness that d’Artagnan still lived inside when he slept—and look in, wondering how it felt to be wrapped in shadows. She couldn’t handle another wall between her and the only family she had left in the world.

“Please,” she said softly, dismayed to hear her voice shake. The mere hint of tears so often caused her to be dismissed faster than a swatted fly and she _needed_ to know. “I can never understand what it was like on the battlefield with the…the noise and blood and death—and I honestly don’t want to. I want to be his safety, the place he can find peace. But…I can’t help him if I don’t know what he’s trying to overcome.”

“Constance, it isn’t that—“

“Four years, Athos,” she interrupted. “I was here, without him—without _any_ of you—for _four years_. And I survived. And I kept the garrison safe for your return. And I sheltered the cadets—despite Feron’s schemes and Marcheaux’s treachery. I fought my _own_ war. And I am _more_ than capable of carrying this burden for my husband.”

“It ain’t that you’re not capable,” Porthos said quietly, his voice heavy and dense with memory. “It’s that it’s not easy for any of us to talk about.”

“Oh,” Constance replied, subdued.

Athos folded his hands on top of his desk. Constance felt him exhale, as though trying to rid himself of the sadness that weighted his eyes. Something about the sound seemed to signal the other two and Aramis took up a perch by the window, leaning one hip and shoulder against the wall in an almost lazy slouch while his quick eyes peered through the glass, missing nothing. Porthos crossed his arms and planted his feet as though standing century in the center of the room. Constance clasped her hands together so that no one would see them tremble and fixed her eyes on Athos.

“It’s oddly fascinating the levels of loss a person can endure,” Athos began. “When Thomas died, I thought my heart was broken—like a bone split in two. And then Anne…,” he shook his head slightly. “But the loss that is felt among soldiers…it carries a different weight. Something most will never know. Something that can never be forgotten.”

He looked up at Constance and she suddenly regretted pushing him, knowing that from this point forward in his story—in her husband’s story—there was no going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** Thank you for reading. Athos’ story is next.


	8. The Man Beside You (Athos)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. Caution for images of war and all that comes with it.

“Never think that war, no matter how necessary, no matter how justified, is not a crime.” – Hemingway

**

**Chapter 8: The Man Beside You (Athos)**

The Hell of war wasn’t limited to the blood and pain, the cannon fire and ravaged countryside, the displaced people and disintegrated families.

Hell was wrapping up with a thin blanket on the cold ground, the only protection against the elements a canvas tent and meager fire. It was being away from loved ones and unable to write home about the misery because it would only increase their worry. It was trying to remember, day after day, why they were there, why they fought, who and what they fought for.

After more than three years of war, Athos was used to part of that—the living conditions, at least. But one thing he was never going to get used to was seeing his men in pain. Seeing his men die. Seeing lines of sorrow etched on faces and voices trapped too deep for tears.

Seeing scars form across hearts too soft to survive without such protection.

They had engaged the Spanish on open battlefields and in the streets of French towns. They’d fought with a full battalion behind them and in desperate skirmishes inside what amounted to nothing more than shallow ditches and make-shift caves. They’d frozen and burned, they’d been hungry and thirsty, wept from exhaustion and slept for days.

And it didn’t appear to be ending any time soon.

Porthos had settled into a comfortable personality—as long as he was never too far from d’Artagnan. It took several weeks of healing after the barricades at Le Mans, but d’Artagnan finally seemed to be back to his old self—or as close a version of it as they would ever get again. The loss of Bauer had rocked the young Gascon more than Athos had realized it would.

Bauer had been Athos’ eyes on the battlefield, keeping watch over d’Artagnan when Porthos was otherwise engaged. He’d been in that role since the young Gascon was wounded back at their first skirmish—and losing him in the Battle of Le Mans had caused a pall to sink over the men, d’Artagnan in particular. Athos alone bore the weight of the knowledge that Bauer had in fact survived as part of his mantel as Captain, but there were times he was sorely tempted to ease the burden of loss from d’Artagnan’s bearing.

 

Once d’Artagnan had healed enough to rejoin the battalion, Athos made sure to keep his men close on the battlefield—and off. Athos often found himself watching Porthos and d’Artagnan from across the camp, noting the easy way they moved around each other, how their smiles were only truly genuine when in each other’s company. He remembered when that had been Aramis with himself and Porthos, the three of them truly inseparable.

Finding Aramis only to leave him once more had been harder than he imagined it would be.

There were others, as well. Despite the wall Athos instinctively erected around his heart, some friendships had developed. Jon-Luc had a medic’s eye and healer’s heart—Athos couldn’t help but wonder what Aramis would have thought of the young man’s enthusiastic approach to patching up the men and keeping them in one piece. George, ever silent, had somehow managed to become Athos’ pseudo squire. He kept his horse cared for, his armor at the ready, and was never more than an arm’s reach away during battle.

Bastien, the young Parisian who had almost killed d’Artagnan three years ago, had managed to work his way into the unit they almost unconsciously built in the wake of what was commonly thought to be an insane General’s direction. Athos noted that d’Artagnan was good at training the younger man, keeping him honed and sharp and practically invaluable. It was good for Bastien to refine his fighting skills, and seemed to give d’Artagnan somewhere to channel his seemingly endless energy.

Athos sat with Porthos against the crumbling wall of a burned-out village, the last they’d overtaken to make camp, mending the leather latigo of his saddle and watching as d’Artagnan sparred with Bastien in the clearing. George was close by as always, running swords against a whetstone, and Porthos was angled on the wall so that he could soak up the last vestiges of the day’s sun.

“Keep your guard up,” d’Artagnan instructed as the clang of metal on metal paused. “You’re vulnerable here and here.”

Athos watched d’Artagnan feint and turn, recognizing the move as one he’d shown him years ago. Bastien twisted, trying to anticipate, to keep up, and Athos saw the flaw in his move about three beats before d’Artagnan’s sword was at the younger man’s throat.

“Head over heart,” Athos whispered low enough only Porthos could hear him.

“Head,” d’Artagnan said to Bastien, gently knocking the edge of his sword hilt against the younger man’s forehead, “over heart. Keep your mind in the battle, don’t let your ego take over.”

Porthos chuckled and bumped Athos’ leg with the back of his hand. “Learned from the best, that one.”

George tapped Athos’ shoulder with the tip of his sword, showing he was done. Athos nodded his thanks and watched as George moved to join the younger men, picking up a spare practice sword so that it was now two against one.

“Don’t look quite fair,” Porthos squinted an eye at the trio, an easy smile on his face.

d’Artagnan blocked two blows, turned and twisted the sword from Bastien’s grip in a move Athos was certain he’d seen Porthos execute more than a few times. Catching the loose sword, d’Artagnan squared off with the two younger soldiers.

“Which way do you mean?” Athos teased.

Porthos chuckled, his breath puffing out in small cloud bursts. It was nearing the last snow of the year—March was rolling steadily forward—and the men were gearing up to take Carcassonne back from the Spanish. It’s what all their battles seemed to be: give and take, charge and retreat, never a massive push to remove the Spanish from their land, their country. They were waiting on their King to do that.

Meanwhile, they simply tried not to die.

“’e’s back to wearing just the shoulder plates,” Porthos said as Athos tossed the repaired latigo on top of his saddle, taking for granted that George would assemble the gear when it was time to ride out. “Since Le Mans I can’t even get ‘im to shield ‘is chest, let alone full armor.”

Athos nodded; it was an old argument between Porthos and d’Artagnan. Porthos was right, of course. It was better protection than just the chainmail and leather, but Athos noted d’Artagnan was fairly agile without the armor and, despite a rather impressive collection of scars he’d amassed over the last several years, he was still here. So, he didn’t make it an order.

“You’ll have to work on your argument, apparently,” Athos said to his old friend as they watched the three younger men drop their swords, grins lighting their faces.

“What d’you know about this place, Carcassonne?” Porthos asked, stretching one leg out to get comfortable. Since his wound at Le Harve, Athos noticed Porthos stiffened up much more quickly. “Supposed to be impenetrable, yeah?”

“The Spanish clearly proved that wrong,” Athos replied.

Porthos tilted his head up, squinting against the late afternoon sun. “So, basically, we’re ‘eading into battle outnumbered, out gunned, and without any idea of what we’re up against.”

Athos nodded.

“Must be Tuesday,” Porthos sighed, leaning back against the crumbling wall and closing his eyes. “Wake me up when it’s time to try and avoid death once more, will you?”

“Of course.”

Orders were handed out like propaganda leaflets—seemingly on a whim, though Athos had to believe there was purpose behind them. Perhaps not the purpose of keeping his men safe, but someone’s purpose none-the-less. They were to march toward Carcassone in the morning with orders to take back the city for King and country.

He wished he could believe their struggle was justified, their loss for a cause, but with each battle, each death, it grew more difficult.

That night he wandered the camp, ears perked toward conversation that might indicate the mood of the men. Conversations centered around those left at home—women, mostly, but some children, some parents—mingled with bitter grumblings concerning their mad General and slid into musings of possible victories and memories of those lost. He paused just outside the campfire in front of Porthos and d’Artagnan’s tent, standing unseen in the shadows, watching as Porthos and d’Artagnan listened to Bastien talk of his life in the Court of Miracles, George silently staring into the flames at his side.

“I got used to things like hunger and cold—enough so that it felt almost wrong to be warm and have a full belly. But I never got used to the way people looked at me,” he shoved a stick into the fire, sending embers up to be eaten by the dark. “Talked to me. As if the fact that they had a home and hearth somehow made them better than me.” He shrugged, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “We all bleed the same.”

“’at’s when you prove them wrong,” Porthos said quietly. “You rise up. Every time they push you down, you rise up. Every time they spit on you, step on you, you rise up.”

“Is that what you did?” Bastien asked, leaning his forward, his elbows on his knees. George mimicked his friend’s posture and their eyes glowed in the firelight as they watched Porthos.

“I did,” Porthos nodded. “And I proved myself worthy of being a Musketeer—without nobility or a name to back me up. Captain Treville saw the man, not the title, and ‘at’s all what mattered to ‘im.”

“And the others,” Bastien glanced at d’Artagnan, whose back was to Athos, “they accepted you?”

At this Porthos smiled. “The ones who mattered did,” he replied. “The ones who didn’t…,” he looked up at Bastien, “don’t matter.”

They were quiet for a bit and Athos almost moved to join them when Bastien spoke up again.

“This place tomorrow,” he started, clearing his throat before continuing, “I don’t like it.”

“Carcassone?” d’Artagnan replied, his low voice carrying a questioning lilt. “Why?”

Bastien shook his head and straightened up so that his face was caught in the shadow of George’s body. “I just got a bad feeling,” he replied. “Like…some of us won’t make it out of there.”

“It’s a battle,” Porthos shrugged, the stiff leather of his doublet creaking. “Like all the rest.”

This time George shook his head, but as per usual stayed silent. Athos found himself wondering from time to time if the young man had been silent since birth, or had been struck dumb by events in his life. It had never occurred to him to simply ask; it was enough that George was a loyal friend and a capable solider. Athos didn’t really need to know more.

“George is right,” Bastien sighed, as though his quiet companion had said something profound. “It doesn’t feel like the rest. It’s an impenetrable, walled city that the Spanish only captured when the men inside were weakened by plague.”

“Bastien,” d’Artagnan softly reprimanded. “Athos would not lead us to our doom. He would not lead us into _any_ battle without good cause. Trust him.”

Athos felt a swelling of pride and gratitude blossom in his chest only to be immediately tempered by the crushing weight of responsibility his young protégé’s words elicited.

Bastien looked over at the Gascon. “Do you?”

d’Artagnan turned his head to meet the young Parisian’s gaze and Athos saw the firelight dance off of his friend’s profile. “With my life. As I have since the day we met.”

Bastien was quiet a moment. “You mean,” he hedged, “ _after_ you tried to kill him.”

d’Artagnan looked surprised, then his face relaxed into a smile and he chuckled. “Naturally, after _that_.”

Porthos grinned and launched into a recounting of their insane plan to corner Cardinal Richelieu and his consort at the time, Milady De Winter. Athos was fairly certain the story would come round to illustrating the level of trust they’d had in one another to ensure their survival, but living through it once had been enough—he didn’t need to hear it again. It made him think of Anne—a different Anne at the end than his men had known. One who’d been damaged, in pain, mostly due to his actions. One who’d loved him, despite all her treachery and betrayal…and his lack of faith.

He never let himself think of her long over these last years of war; there was a hole inside of him where his love for her had once resided. Nothing in war or friendships or brotherhood would fill that hole; it was best he ignore it and continue forward. He moved quietly away from his friends and the campfire, thinking about the next morning and how he was going to keep his men alive.

When the first gasp of morning lit the frost-covered grasses surrounding the quiet camp, Athos was no closer to a solution than he’d been the night before. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to make the men believe in themselves—in each other—once more before heading into this next fray.

By the time Athos reached the front of their makeshift parade grounds, his men were armed, standing at attention, looking resolute and ready. Athos stood at the front of the assembly, scanning the men—there were only a few dozen of them with him now, the rest ordered to follow the General to the south of the city—their weapons, the flags of their King. It reminded him of their first march up that fateful hill, how scared they’d been, how proud he’d felt.

Bauer had been standing on the front lines next to Porthos and d’Artagnan back then. As had Mathieu, DuFour, Magliore. All were gone now. Chewed up by war, or left behind by choice.

Now, instead of the danger that came with untested nervousness, Athos saw eyes that had witnessed too much death. A strange sort of carelessness in the men’s bearing, a sense that whatever happened mattered not as their lives were expendable. Athos pinned his gaze on his friends, the men who had fought beside him, protected him, and protected each other.

Only George looked back at him. Porthos and d’Artagnan stared somewhere into the middle distance. Bastien was looking down the line of men as though saying goodbye.

“You men,” Athos suddenly spoke, causing a few of them to startle with surprise. “Look to your left. Your right.” He met Porthos’ eyes and felt his mouth soften in an answering smile, seeing recognition in his friend’s expression. “Those men you see there, they are your brothers.”

He looked at d’Artagnan, watching as the young man brought his chin up and nodded, encouraging him on.

“When you fight, you do not simply protect France, your home, your country. You protect your _brother_!”

Instead of a war cry, this time his speech was met with silence, the only sound that of fifty armed men, breathing in sync with their Captain. It wasn’t working this time; they had survived too many defeats, too much loss. It wasn’t enough to rally them to King and country; their brothers were dying every day.

It wasn’t _enough_.

“Listen up, you lot,” Porthos said suddenly, his voice echoing off of the armor surrounding him. “Today, I don’t fight for some bloke up in ‘is tent all safe and clean, passing out orders like they was sweets. I don’t fight for my country or even for Paris.”

He half turned, his dark eyes taking in the men around him. He grabbed the back of d’Artagnan’s neck in a gentle grip. “I fight for ‘im.” He pointed to George next to him. “I fight for ‘im.” He released d’Artagnan and pointed to Athos. “I fight for ‘im! For the man next to me.” He faced Athos once more. “What say you to that?”

The men murmured, armor shifting looking at each other, then back up at Athos.

“If I go down,” Athos shouted. “You follow him,” he pointed to Porthos. “If he goes down, you follow—“

“Me,” d’Artagnan yelled. “We’ll follow you, Captain. To the end!”

And at this, the men took up the rally cry Athos knew they needed. The march to Carcassone was a cold one, the snow finally deciding to fall. By the time they reached the walled city, the men were chilled and tired; tension was high as they surveyed their destination from the safety of the forest.

“No way we can attack that straight on,” d’Artagnan muttered at Athos’ side, quiet enough only the Captain could hear. “What were the General’s orders?”

“To attack it straight on,” Athos replied bitterly.

He knew a direct attack would be disastrous, but if the primary objective was to take back the city, there were other ways to do so. He just had to figure out how. And keep his men alive in the process.

“I ‘ave a plan,” Porthos spoke up suddenly from Athos’ right.

Athos and d’Artagnan turned their heads in unison to look at him in surprise and not a little disbelief. Porthos met their eyes, then tilted his head in concession.

“I ‘ave… _part_ of a plan,” he amended. “Got the idea from something we did back during my days in the Court.” He reached behind Athos and grabbed Bastien by the scruff of the neck. “You know those tunnels that run from the Court to the sewers?”

Bastien nodded, confused, then Athos saw him glance toward the walled city as realization dawned. At the mention of the sewers, Athos thought of Aramis and wondered if Porthos had in some way inspired their friend’s recklessly brave sojourn into the burning city back at Le Mans.

“I say we go in under the wall,” Porthos released Bastien and looked at Athos, “real quiet like.”

“It could work,” Athos nodded.

“’course it’ll work,” Porthos chuffed. “We get in, find the General, cut off the ‘ead of the snake, city’s ours.”

“Something tells me it won’t be that easy,” d’Artagnan muttered darkly.

Athos had to agree, but the plan was better than fifty men attacking the north wall without a cannon or hope of survival.

“We’ll wait until dark,” he said, then turned to pass the orders down the line of men.

By his estimation that gave them two hours. He spent the time breaking the men up into four groups, putting Porthos in charge of one and d’Artagnan another. He kept George with him and made sure Bastien was close to d’Artagnan. As the sun began to slip beneath the edges of the tree line, throwing elongated shadows across the plain between his men and the city, Athos focused his breathing, calming his suddenly racing heart.

This wasn’t a true battle…it wasn’t even a skirmish. They were attacking the city like bandits, looking only for a way to achieve their goal and get out alive. It wasn’t very soldierly of them…and yet it was the first time he’d felt like they could actually accomplish something they’d been ordered to do in the nearly four years since the war began.

“We use the night as our shield,” Athos said quietly to the men in his group, the first ones to head down. “We go in quietly and we hit them hard. Do not stop moving. Look only for the blade that will kill you and the color of the uniform before you. Understand?”

The men nodded. With that, Athos waved them forward, leading them toward the towering walls and finding the one of the sewer drains they would use to enter the city. The gate was clogged with moss, clumps of vegetation, and other elements Athos would rather not consider. The men were able to pull the bars free from the crumbling stone and, after a few moments of crawling through the stench of waste and garbage, they were inside.

Porthos’ plan was solid…to a point. They were able to take the Spanish soldiers guarding the wall by surprise. Athos didn’t stop to think of how many men they killed making their way further into the city. Where the plan faltered was in finding the Spanish General and forcing surrender of the city.

Once they were into the streets of Carcassone, Hell was redefined yet again.

Athos had kept Porthos and d’Artagnan’s group in his sights for as long as possible, but the streets separated them. Instinctively, they headed toward the city center and the capital, and just as instinctively, the Spanish soldiers protected both with extreme prejudice. Athos followed his own orders, killing whoever came toward him, looking only at the blade, the uniform, not at the man.

The Spanish clearly didn’t care for the integrity of their conquered city—a fact Athos realized with the first cannon blast. When the stone wall to his left began to crumble, he had only minutes to dodge out of the way of falling rock. As the dust cleared, he found himself facing off with three Spanish soldiers, his own men lost in the melee of the fighting. Crouching quickly, Athos grabbed a sword from a fallen soldier and raised both, ready for their attack.

They were swift and sure, not coming at him in turns, but rushing as a trio of death. A blow landed on his left arm, turning his hand numb and causing him to drop the sword. Another sliced across his back, taking him to a knee, though the cut of the blade was blocked by chainmail. As he lifted his sword to block one blow, he saw another blade glinting in the light from the moon that had risen high above the city, its bright fullness a beacon for their attack. The blade came down fast and with his sword blocking another attacker, Athos knew he wouldn’t be able to stop it. This was his time.

Except that it wasn’t.

Like a bird of prey descending from the rooftops, George fell upon the soldier, knocking the blade from his hands. Athos shoved the sword he was blocking back with his full might, causing his attacker to stumble. He pressed his advantage, hoping George was able to hold his own with the man he’d dropped on top of like an anvil, and continued his attack.

It didn’t take him long to dispatch the soldier and he turned, raising his sword toward another who approached carrying a torch, his eyes shifting between this new threat and the odd image of George perched on the back of the third Spanish soldier, his rapier at the man’s throat, his dark eyes alight with determination as they reflected in the firelight from the torch.

“I believe he’s asking you to surrender,” Athos said.

The soldier responded in Spanish, and while Athos didn’t understand a word, he got the general gist.

“He chooses to die instead,” Athos said to George, not flinching as George drew his blade across the man’s throat and dropped down to gracefully land on his feet when the man crumbled beneath him.

The two men turned to face the Spanish soldier holding the torch, their blood-smeared blades held before them. The Spaniard paused a moment longer, then turned and ran the other direction. Athos glanced at George and saw the younger man grin in response—just before another cannon blast shook through the now-deserted street around them. This time, the walls didn’t as much as collapse as explode. Athos had a moment register the stone shooting like shrapnel toward him and then George was there, flinging his body against Athos’ as the crumbling wall took them both down.

It took Athos a moment to catch his breath—and to realize that the weight on top of him wasn’t a piece of the wall, but that of his soldier and personal, silent shadow. He pushed to his elbow, rolling the young man off of him and cradling his head in the process.

“George,” Athos called, wincing at the amount of blood he saw covering the side of the young Parisian’s face, turning to paste as it mixed with the dirt and dust from the broken building wall.

The young man blinked at him, the white of one eye stained red with blood, his mouth gaping open in a desperate bid for air.

“I have you.” Athos reassured him.

George’s lips moved, his body trembling in Athos’ grip. Athos leaned forward, his ear to the boy’s mouth, listening as the word, “Captain,” slipped out on a shaking exhale. Athos felt his own breath hitch. He pulled his head up, looking at George’s face in time to see the dark eyes slip closed.

“George.” Athos tried to make it a summons, though even he heard the plea.

But George was dead weight against him; Athos felt the sticky smear of blood on the back of his head where his hand cradled it. He leaned forward, his ear to the young man’s chest, listening, hoping. He placed his fingers over the slack mouth, feeling for breath. It took him much too long to connect the silence next to him with what it was: death.

“No,” Athos breathed. “No, George, you can’t….”

Athos gathered the lad to him, and realized then that more than the back of his head was covered in blood. The explosion had peppered the young man’s back with bits of stone and metal, impaling him in places too numerous to count. His body had taken the brunt of the impact leaving Athos with no more than an aching head and ringing ears.

Athos sat in shock, holding George’s body to him, tears burning his eyes. He was no stranger to death, to killing. But this was too close, too real. One of _his_ men. A boy, really. Who’d saved him without a thought toward his own safety. He felt a growl build low in his throat, shaking through him as he gently laid George on the ground, smoothing his bloody hair away from his slack features.

A soldier came around the corner and Athos lifted a sword, ready to run the man through.

“Captain!” The man shouted and Athos blinked, belatedly recognizing one of the men from Porthos’ group. “We’ve located the Spanish General!”

“Where?” Athos rasped, pushing unsteadily to his feet. The man grasped his elbow, balancing him.

“At the citadel, center square,” the man said, pointing in the general direction of the center of the city. “Just as you thought.”

“Our men?”

“All over,” the soldier shook his head.

Athos bent forward and coughed roughly, trying to rid his lungs of the dust that now coated everything. He grabbed the soldier’s arm for balance, then gestured toward George’s body.

“Do not leave him here,” he ordered. “When we leave, he leaves with us. Understood?”

The soldier was staring with stricken eyes down at George. “Yessir.”

Athos staggered forward, the ringing in his ears abating but the headache raging fiercer than ever, following a path from his temple to his jaw. He reached up to rub at it, distractedly, and was surprised to find his hand come away wet, the pain from a cut across his forehead suddenly making itself known. Rounding the corner of a ruined building, he saw his men rushing stairs toward the capital, joined by more French soldiers in fresher, cleaner uniforms. He realized it had to have been their own General’s men finally breaching the wall from the south.

Bodies were scattered across the city square—both French and Spanish. He bent and grabbed a discarded sword and made his way forward, no longer caring about taking the city—their General was handling that portion of the effort. He needed to find his men.

The moonlight worked with the chaos to mask faces and mangle bodies so that every dark-haired body was d’Artagnan, was Porthos. He heard more fighting to the south and headed that direction at a staggering run, his eyes never pausing, his mind skipping through images both real and imagined.

It felt like hours later, though he knew it was only minutes—battle had a way of warping time—when he came upon a street filled with soldiers doing their level best to end each other. Peering through the dust and smoke, he saw Porthos just beyond him, his schianova glinting off of the moonlight, his thick curls dusted with dirt and blood.

He searched for d’Artagnan—knowing they wouldn’t be far apart—and saw him off to the right, just where the street widened into a crossroad. He was fighting with two swords, blood on his face and uniform—though from this distance it was unclear if it was his or his enemy’s—his expression a mask of battle fury and rage that Athos had only seen a handful of other times.

Seeing his friends in the fight sent a surge of strength back into Athos. With a cry on his lips, he surged forward, sword swinging, body in constant motion as he headed toward Porthos. Someone crashed into him from behind and he turned, slashing, stabbing, killing, surviving. He was knocked to his back by a vicious blow, is vision spinning a moment as dizziness threatened to claim him, but swept his sword in a violent arc and sent his attacker back and away.

On his feet once more, Athos realized he’d maneuvered his way closer to d’Artagnan, who was now battling a large Spanish soldier on what looked to be a dias in the center of the city. The young Gascon had lost one his swords and Athos could see he was visibly tiring.

And if _he_ could see it, the big Spaniard was definitely pressing that advantage. He looked around for Porthos, seeing the man wiping blood from his large, curved blade.

“Porthos!” he shouted, watching as the big man’s head came up, his eyes finding Athos immediately.

Athos pointed his sword toward d’Artagnan, but then gasped and turned as another man attacked him from the side. He fought off this newest threat and continued to make his way toward d’Artagnan, seeing Porthos doing the same from the side, sweeping his sword at anyone who came at him. Athos made his way wearily up a flight of stairs to the dias, watching in detached horror as the big Spaniard knocked d’Artagnan’s sword from his rubbery grip and, with a mighty sweep, seemed to slice the Gascon from back to front along his right side, blood immediately blossoming on his leather uniform

d’Artagnan’s shout of pain seemed to split the night as he hit the ground, hard.

“No!” Athos roared, surging forward, knowing instinctively that he was not going to be fast enough. There were too many stairs, too much distance. He saw Porthos running forward, but he was further away than Athos.

The big Spaniard lifted his sword, the tip poised over d’Artagnan’s body, the Gascon laying dazed and defenseless. Athos reached forward as he ran, his heart screaming as his head prepared for the sight of his friend’s death.

And then without warning, Bastien was there. On the dias. Between d’Artagnan and the Spaniard’s sword.

The blade drove through the young Parisian’s chest with vicious force, slamming him to the ground, his breath leaving him in a rough cry. Porthos reached the scene seconds before Athos, his schianova stabbing into the Spaniard’s neck and killing him instantly, practically separating his head from his shoulders as he fell to the side.

“No,” Athos repeated, this time a breathless prayer.

He was on his knees next to d’Artagnan and Bastien with no memory have having fallen there. Porthos turned from the body of the Spaniard, a sound wrenched from him that was balanced on a knife’s edge between rage and pain. The battle below them waged on, but they were elevated on the dias, a wall of an oddly protective circle of bodies between them and the rest of the carnage.

A sound of agony was wrung from d’Artagnan as he pushed upright, but Athos could tell by his face it wasn’t from the pain of his wound. He struggled to a seated position and tugged at Bastien, trying to pull the younger man to him. The sword was pinning the young Parisian to the stone, keeping him in place. Porthos staggered forward, tugging the blade free and Athos watched, devastated, as d’Artagnan gathered Bastien close to him, whispering something Athos couldn’t understand.

He recognized the lilt, however. It was the language of Gascony. And it sounded like a prayer.

“He’s gone, d’Artagnan,” Athos rasped, staring with blurring vision at how Bastien’s skin appeared almost translucent in the moonlight, a thin line of blood trickling from his parted lips, his chest still. “He’s gone.”

Porthos’ knees buckled and he sank down next to Athos, the two men staring in weary shock as d’Artagnan mourned his—no, _their_ —friend. Athos was surprised. He couldn’t recall seeing d’Artagnan this distraught over the loss of their fellow Musketeers—even Bauer—and he’d known those men since he’d first arrived in Paris all those years ago.

“No…,” d’Artagnan gasped, pressing his forehead to Bastien’s pale temple. “I told you to go…to stay away….”

And then Athos realized: d’Artagnan was mourning them— _all_ of them. Losing Bastien made losing the rest of them real, made the whole point of this wicked war pointless and empty. As the battle for Carcassone faded around them, Athos leaned forward, his shoulders sagging. His heart was weighted, a stone in his chest, filling it up and making it impossible to breathe.

He remembered this feeling; he had felt this pain when Anne hung, when Thomas died.

“d’Artagnan,” Porthos said softly, his tone so gentle that Athos looked up.

The moon shone down on them, d’Artagnan’s dark head bent forward, his body curved around Bastien’s. But even with that, Athos could see the darkening stain of blood on d’Artagnan’s side. Wordlessly, he reached forward, thinking to take Bastien from d’Artagnan’s arms so that they could care for his wound.

Out of nowhere it seemed, d’Artagnan drew his dagger and held it out, threateningly, toward Athos.

“ _Back off_ ,” d’Artagnan growled, the words devoid of everything save pain, the kind that stemmed from a crushed heart.

Athos drew his hands back, shocked, and exchanged a look with Porthos. They waited a moment until d’Artagnan’s arm began to shake and he was forced to lower the dagger.

“Come on, lad,” Porthos said quietly. “Let us ‘elp.”

At that, d’Artagnan raised red-rimmed eyes, simply looking at them, and Athos felt something inside of him break. It was so harsh and loud he would swear Porthos could hear it. d’Artagnan held Bastien tighter, his eyes pinned to his two oldest friends. Athos heard the shouts of victory—one of very few for this battalion—overtake the noise of battle and pulled in a slow breath.

“I told him…to s-stay back,” d’Artagnan whispered, his voice raspy and weak. “I t-told him to stay safe.”

“He was a soldier, d’Artagnan,” Athos replied.

d’Artagnan huffed slightly, bowing his head. “What does that matter?” He shook his head and Athos saw a shudder race across his shoulders. “There is no honor in death.”

Porthos shifted closer and, wary of the dagger still in d’Artagnan’s hand, reached out to place a comforting hand on his young friend’s shoulder.

“’e was protecting you,” Porthos said, “like a true Musketeer.”

d’Artagnan looked up at that and Athos saw tears pooling in his dark eyes, spilling down to draw tracks in the dirt and blood on his face.

“He never got the chance…,” d’Artagnan started, but his eyelids fluttered, his head lolling back slightly. Athos felt is gut clench, wanting to reach out and offer some kind of aid, some kind of comfort, but holding himself still as d’Artagnan fought this one last battle next to Bastien. The young Gascon blinked his eyes wide once last time, shaking his head. “He never….”

Athos watched as d’Artagnan’s eyes rolled back, a slick, hot pain radiating across his chest as his friend’s body went slack and collapse against the stone. The dagger fell from slack fingers and d’Artagnan’s hold on Bastien finally released. Porthos beat Athos to the Gascon’s side by a breath and they were checking his pulse—rapid, thready—and his breathing—ragged, shallow—before seeking out the blood-soaked slash at his side.

“This is bad, Athos,” Porthos declared.

Athos looked over his shoulder through the burned-out, gutted city. Small fires and torches lit the streets and alleyways. Here and there, pockets of French soldiers were marching prisoners of war toward the main entrance to the walled city, the scattering crack of musket fire punctuating the night with executions of those who’d clearly rather not be taken prisoner.

“Can you lift him?” Athos asked, feeling his own body echoing the hollow aches from having a wall nearly fall on him moments ago. He felt Porthos’ eyes on him as he tracked the eerie dance of medics and battlefield merchants flowing into the city to see to the bodies.

“I lift ‘im, who’s carrying you?”

“I’m fine,” Athos protested, looking back over at d’Artagnan, not fully aware of the way he swayed forward until Porthos caught his shoulder. “I’ll…be fine,” he amended.

The ringing in his ears had never fully abated and with the focus off of battle, every cut, every bruise, every cracked bone was standing up and demanding an accounting.

“You just stick close to me, yeah?” Porthos ordered.

Athos nodded mutely, watching as Porthos bent and scooped d’Artagnan’s lanky frame into his arms, the dark head hanging loose over Porthos’ arm, his feet swinging freely. Athos pressed his hand to Bastien’s still chest.

“We can’t leave him, Porthos.”

“We’ll come back for ‘im,” Porthos declared, moving down the stairs and toward the city gate.

Athos thought of the soldier he’d left guarding George’s body, wondering if that man still lived. How many of his men were now lost? Swallowing hard, he grasped a discarded sword, and lay it on Bastien’s chest, then folded his arms across the hilt. With a last glance—heartbreak and gratitude warring within him—Athos pushed unsteadily to his feet and followed Porthos down the stairs.

The world seemed distant, as if there was a bubble of silence wrapped around him. He felt himself stagger more than a few times, focusing his full attention on Porthos’ back. He simply had to stay close, get out of the city, away from the smoke and the dust and the cries of the dying.

Breathe. That’s all he really needed to do. _Breathe_.

Porthos stopped just outside the gate, d’Artagnan’s left arm swinging loose, the metal of his blood-smeared chainmail glinting in the moonlight. Athos stood, swaying, staring at his young friend, thinking how Porthos made him look frail when he was actually dangerous.

“You with me, Athos?” Porthos’ voice broke into his reverie.

Athos tried to nod, but the muscles holding his head to his shoulders seized up and he simply blinked.

“C’mon,” Porthos growled. “’m getting you two out of ‘ere.”

“We left them, Porthos,” Athos said quietly. “George…the wall crushed him and not me…and…Bastien…. We left them.”

Porthos’ breath shook slightly with his exhale. “We’re comin’ back for them,” he reminded Athos. “Just as soon as I get you safe.”

Athos followed obediently when Porthos began to walk again. The din around them changed from battle cries to pained screams the closer they drew to the make-shift medic’s tent. Athos could smell the blood long before they reached the glowing lanterns of the tent. Porthos paused, shifting d’Artagnan’s weight in his arms and causing the young Gascon to groan in pain, though he didn’t fully rouse.

The sight before them was a thing of nightmares: cots and pallets where strewn about the tent, bloody bodies—most missing limbs—lying atop them. The screams threatened to curl Athos in on himself and the smell….

He staggered to the side, leaning forward and retching, the pain in his head spiking as he did so.

“Oi! Jon-Luc!” Porthos shouted.

Athos straightened and saw the Porthos had laid d’Artagnan down on a blood-stained cot that had been recently vacated by a man who wouldn’t be returning to Paris. The young medic seemed to appear from nowhere and bent over d’Artagnan, parting the sodden doublet.

“Here,” Jon-Luc thrust surprisingly clean bandages into Porthos’ hands. “Wrap the wound tightly.” He shifted to Athos and began prodding his aching head. “You’ve quite a gash here, Captain,” Jon-Luc remarked, his voice gentling from the hurried, clipped tones he’d used with Porthos. “I’m surprised you’re still on your feet.”

“A wall,” Athos started, then swallowed hard as a wave of dizziness threatened him, “fell on me. George…,” he didn’t miss Jon-Luc’s flinch when he said the young man’s name, “stopped it from…from crushing me.”

“Where is George?” Jon-Luc asked, dropping his hands away from Athos’ wound, his face paling.

“In the city,” Athos answered truthfully.

Porthos turned and rested his hands on Jon-Luc’s narrow shoulders. “We will go back for them, I promise you that.”

“Them?” Jon-Luc rasped.

“Bastien also fell…both saving the lives of the men you see ‘ere,” Porthos reported, never taking his eyes from Jon-Luc’s stricken face. “They were brave, to the end.”

“They…,” Jon-Luc replied in a strangled voice, “they always were.”

For a moment, no one moved, then Jon-Luc turned suddenly, grabbing several packets and shoving them into a satchel. He hung the satchel around Athos’ neck, then turned to Porthos.

“Take them back to the camp,” he ordered. “If d’Artagnan stays here, he’s as good as dead,” he thrust a thumb back over his shoulder, “with these butchers at work. Athos is concussed and needs the herbs I put in that satchel.” He shifted to square off with Porthos. “You will do much better treating them on your own than anything I can offer here.”

Porthos squared his chin and looked back at Athos. “Can you make it back to camp?”

“I will follow your lead,” Athos replied.

Porthos nodded once, then picked d’Artagnan up once more, the younger man gasping in pain and muttering incoherently.

“Give him the same herbs you give Athos,” Jon-Luc instructed. “Clean and stitch the wound, and let him rest.”

“You listen,” Porthos practically growled, catching the young medic’s attention. “You come back to us, you ‘ear? You get back to camp, I’ll get you ‘ome.”

Jon-Luc offered a smile and Athos thought it was the saddest thing he’d ever seen. “I don’t have a home anymore.” He swallowed roughly, his eyes pooling with tears. “Everyone who matters to me is standing right here, or,” he winced, blinking the tears away, “still in the city. I’m good where I am.”

Athos felt his heart pang once more, but turned and followed Porthos as the big man led him the long way back through the forest to their camp. The trees were silent, the path seeming to part for them, moonlight tilting along the skyline to show them the way.

Athos was aware of Porthos’ shortened breath as he bore the weight of his friend, his steps heavy and lumbering through the undergrowth. He was aware of d’Artagnan’s unconscious mutterings, curses and pleas, and the occasional whimper of pain when Porthos shifted his grip. He was aware of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears like a betrayal.

It was eerily quiet when they reached his tent. Porthos lay d’Artagnan on one of the two cots and immediately left to collect water. Athos sat heavily in the camp chair next to the cot, resting a trembling hand on d’Artagnan’s filthy hair.

d’Artagnan stirred under his touch, flinching away, his hands moving as though to reach for a weapon. “What…?”

“You’re safe,” Athos said to him, unsure why that reassurance was the first he thought of. “d’Artagnan, be calm,” he entreated as the younger man tried to push himself upright. “You’ve bled too much to—“

“Where are we?” d’Artagnan demanded.

Porthos entered the tent, water and more bandages in his hands. d’Artagnan looked at him, his expression at once terrified and confused.

“What happened to the city?”

“We took the city,” Porthos informed him, setting his supplies down and reaching for the stained armor at d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “You were wounded.”

“What of our men?” d’Artagnan demanded, hissing as Porthos pulled the blood-soaked doublet away from his side.

Porthos shot a look toward Athos, but Athos couldn’t seem to make his mouth obey him. Words of reassurance, promises for peace, were crowding at the base of his throat, choking him with their emptiness. He wasn’t able to set a single one free.

“d’Artagnan,” Porthos said quietly, resting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “Bastien is gone.”

“Gone?” d’Artagnan repeated, and Athos watched as memory caught up to the wounded man, washing over him like a tidal wave of pain. His face paled, his chin trembled, and Porthos had no problem pushing him back down on the cot.

As Athos watched with a sort of numb detachment, Porthos cleaned d’Artagnan’s wound, rolling the young man to his side when he had to reach the skin along the back of his ribs, while d’Artagnan lay with eyes open and distant, the only sound he made an occasional, aborted bleat of pain. Tears slipped the corners of his eyes and soaked his hair, but Athos didn’t hear one sound of grief.

“This’ll ‘urt,” Porthos warned as he readied the needle and thread.

“Always does,” d’Artagnan managed through bloodless lips. “You just never know ‘cause you’re always unconscious.”

Porthos looked up at Athos, something like his old self shining in his eyes. “Is that so?”

d’Artagnan didn’t reply, but Athos saw him grip the edges of the cot tight enough his knuckles turned white when Porthos began the laborious process of sewing his skin back together. His breath hammered in and out with such fervor Athos was afraid he’d pass out from lack of oxygen before the pain got to him. He leaned forward and rested his hand once more on top of d’Artagnan’s head, the younger man pressing into his touch, searching for relief.

“Drink this,” Porthos instructed and Athos couldn’t help the worry that surfaced when d’Artagnan complied without protest.

The moment Porthos turned his attention to Athos, d’Artagnan closed his eyes and Athos saw him sink into the folds of the cot in an uneasy sleep. Porthos tended his wound—prompting Athos to commend him on his new skills as a field surgeon. The dark look he received in return encouraged him to not make that comparison again.

“Rest,” Porthos instructed. “I’ll head back to the city for our men.”

“Sleep first,” Athos said as he stretched his aching body on the other cot. “You’re practically swaying on your feet.”

“The men—“

“Will still be there in a few hours,” Athos interrupted. “Don’t ask me to make it an order, Porthos. Sleep.”

To his immense relief, Porthos obeyed, stretching out on a pallet on the floor across the tent, but they were both jerked awake soon after by d’Artagnan’s shout. The only thing that kept the younger man on the cot as he fought an unseen force in his dreams was the pain from his wound. Athos made it over to the side of his cot before Porthos and was able to settle him before he did himself too much damage.

“Aramis was like this for days after Savoy,” Porthos said quietly from his bedroll on the ground. “Sometimes during the day it would suck the air from ‘is lungs and ‘is eyes would just…’e’d be back _there_ , back in that woods again.”

Athos nodded, a comforting hand on d’Artagnan’s forearm, the younger man’s loose grip on his wrist like a lifeline. “I remember.” He didn’t bother to point out that this was the first time Porthos had mentioned Aramis without prompting in almost three years.

“Suppose everyone’s got their breaking point.”

Athos sighed, looking at d’Artagnan’s pain-lined face. “He’s not broken, Porthos.”

“Ain’t never seen ‘im like ‘e was back in that city,” Porthos countered. “Pulled a knife on you.”

“He’s not broken,” Athos said again, softer, his hand tightening on d’Artagnan’s arm.

Porthos slept another hour before taking a small wagon back to Carcassone. Athos woke many hours later to d’Artagnan leveraging himself to his feet with a pained groan, a hand wrapped around his middle, staggering to the entry of the tent at the sound of men and horses approaching. Athos joined the young Gascon, dropping a blanket around his narrow shoulders as they watched the men file back into camp.

Next to Porthos on the seat of the wagon was an exhausted Jon-Luc. Porthos pulled the wagon to a stop next to Athos’ tent and waited as Athos and d’Artagnan made their way slowly to the wagon bed. Porthos had covered both bodies, but Athos could tell who was who by the tufts of hair he could see peeking out.

“Are you all right?” Athos asked his friend, peering up at Porthos.

Porthos simply shook his head, a haunted, hollow look in his eyes. “This war’s over for them,” he said. “It’s the only peace I ‘ave in bringing ‘em back.”

Athos moved closer to the front of the wagon, reaching up to put a hand on Porthos’ leg. “Are _you_ all right?” he repeated

Porthos looked down at him, then craned his neck to look back at where d’Artagnan stood staring at the bodies in the back of the wagon, the blanket Athos had given him clutched around his bare torso, the white bandage around his middle standing out in stark contrast to his dusky skin.

“No,” he answered. “But…if we get out of this war…I will be.”

They buried Bastien and George in a soldier’s grave outside of camp. With Carcassone taken, the General was on the move again before Athos’ headaches had fully abated or d’Artagnan’s wound was completely healed. Porthos never left the Gascon’s side as they marched, camped, and readied for battle once more.

d’Artagnan was so quiet during those days Athos worried he’d wouldn’t be able to reengage. His nights were peppered with disorienting nightmares that only Porthos seemed able to pull him out of, his days were melancholy as he gazed around himself with distant eyes, as though he was seeing something not quite there.

When they engaged in the first battle since the loss of Bastien and George, Athos was anxious. Porthos’ promises that d’Artagnan would do what needed done didn’t exactly reassure him. He didn’t _want_ his men to have to charge into battle, barely healed, haunted by years of war and loss, and do what needed done.

He was weary of sending sword against cannon in an open field.

They met the Spanish somewhere outside Avion, in the middle of a field that meant nothing but death and destruction to the French army if they weren’t able to equally engage the enemy. With his men covered in the dirt from cannon fire, sheltered in a crater left behind by the latest explosion, Athos made his way to the rear line, confronting their General.

As usual, his argument fell on deaf ears.

“You will hold the line at all cost, Captain. We have to take the field.”

“Our cannon are useless,” Athos shouted. “Where is the powder we were promised?”

The General looked irritated. “The supply wagon did not arrive. You will have to advance without artillery support.”

_Again_ , Athos couldn’t help but think, his fingers curling into fists at his side. “There won’t be a man left alive.”

The General arched a brow at him. “You are soldiers, the King’s own regiment,” he reminded Athos. “Now, go out there and die for him.”

Athos inwardly winced, remembering how he’d made a similar justification for sacrifice weeks prior. “That is your strategy? To watch good men slaughtered?” Athos returned, incredulous at the number of times this man could allow such destruction.

“Return to your men, Captain,” the General ordered imperiously, “or I will have you court-martialed.”

With a snarl, Athos turned and headed back to the field, finding Porthos and d’Artagnan huddled in a crater, biding their time.

“The only way out of here is to take out that cannon,” Athos informed them, trying to steady his breathing.

Porthos nodded, pulling the hammer back on his pistol. “We need a plan.”

d’Artagnan grunted as he arched his neck to look over the edge of the trench they were hiding in and found his target. “Attack.”

“What?”

In that moment, Athos realized he had worried needlessly that the effect of war and loss would temper d’Artagnan’s fire. What he _should_ have worried about was how high the flames would surge when the odds tilted out of their favor and all hope seemed lost.

d’Artagnan caught Athos’ eye, pulled his sword, and ran into the fray with a roar on his lips. “ _Attack_!”

“’ey!” Porthos shouted as he reached uselessly for d’Artagnan’s disappearing leg.

“I hate it when he does that,” Athos muttered, but didn’t miss the echoing grin on Porthos’ face as they flung themselves away from the relative safety of the crater and followed d’Artagnan into the melee and chaos of battle, as he knew they would until they day they died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** Thank you for reading. The last portion of this chapter pulled quotes from S3 E1. Epilogue is next!


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. Caution for images of war and all that comes with it.

“War is only a cowardly escape from the problems of peace.” – Thomas Mann

**

**Chapter 9: Epilogue**

There wasn’t a sound in the room when Athos finished speaking. It was as if they were all afraid to so much as breathe. The loss in his voice filled the room like another presence, sorrow finding its way into Constance’s heart even though she’d never once met these men who’d died for her friends, for her husband. Tears burned her eyes and regret pressed on her heart.

“I’m so sorry,” Constance whispered.

She was sitting in a chair on the other side of the desk from Athos, a hand to her belly as though to ward off the ache that spread through her body at what they’d all endured—what she’d forced them to relive. She looked across at Athos, then lifted her eyes to where Porthos was now slouched against the wall next to the window, staring out sightlessly across the garrison, having at some point exchanged places with Aramis during Athos’ story.

“I’m so _very_ sorry.” It was inadequate, but not hollow. She wished with everything in her that these men had been spared this weight, this pain. She wished war had never come to them, scarred them, changed them.

“The dreams will…,” Aramis spoke up, clearing his throat and shifting his feet slightly, his hat clutched tightly by his fingertips, “…they’ll abate in time. Especially if,” he glanced at Constance, “he is able to talk through them.”

“Did you dream of Savoy?” Porthos asked suddenly, his voice bouncing off the glass that separated them from the outside. When Aramis didn’t immediately reply, Porthos turned to face him. “At the Monastery,” he clarified. “Did you?”

Aramis swallowed and ducked his head slightly. “Yes.”

“And ‘ow did you…,” Porthos frowned, stepping away from the window. “’ow did you find your way out of it?”

Aramis, turned his hat around in his hands a few times, then dropped it at his side as he lifted his shoulders helplessly. “I…didn’t. Not always.”

Constance watched as Porthos stood next to Athos’ chair, both men looking at their friend with unreadable expressions.

“They would, um…,” Aramis paused, clearing his throat again, emotion clearly working against him. “They would confuse me,” he admitted. “I didn’t always wake knowing where I was. The Abbott recommended prayer, of course. Fasting. And then there were the children,” his eyes lifted from their study of the floorboards to meet Athos’. “Caring for them helped me anchor onto something real.”

“And that helped?” Athos asked, his voice rough from over-use.

Aramis nodded. “It did. I didn’t find myself getting quite so…lost. Without you.”

“You always ‘ad us,” Porthos said softly. “Even when we wasn’t there.”

The quiet invaded once more and Constance held herself achingly still, watching the three men watch each other, as though waiting for something.

“Bastien,” Aramis said, startling them all. “He was buried in a soldier’s grave, you said?”

Athos nodded. “He and George, together.”

“And d’Artagnan thought of him—of them—as Musketeers?” Aramis continued.

“We all did, in a way,” Porthos replied. “They would ‘ave been, too…’ad they survived.”

Aramis looked at Athos. “I think I know where d’Artagnan may have gone.”

With a look of dawning realization, Athos sat forward, his hair long enough to fall across his collar as he lifted his face toward Aramis. Just as he was about to speak, a quick rap came at the door and a boy entered without waiting to be summoned. He was young, thin, dirt streaking his face and arms. In his fingers he clutched a folded piece of paper.

“Supposed to give this to an Athos,” the boy declared, oblivious of the collective surprise in the eyes of the four adults staring at him.

“I am Athos.”

The boy handed Athos the note, then stood with his hand out. Athos looked at him blankly.

“Said you’d give me a livre.”

Athos arched a brow, though his expression was bemused. “Is that so?”

“’tis.”

Athos fished a coin from his pocket and deposited it in the boy’s outstretched hand. Without another word, the boy turned and exited the room. Athos looked at the note, then frowned.

“It’s from Treville.”

“What?” Constance sat forward, gripping the arms of the chair.

“It’s about d’Artagnan, isn’t it?” Porthos demanded, watching Athos read the missive.

When Athos nodded, Constance felt a weight in her chest, making it nearly impossible to take a full breath.

“You were right,” Athos stated in a dull voice, lifting his blue eyes up to meet Aramis’ solemn gaze.

Porthos snatched the note from Athos hand, then cursed. “Can’t believe we didn’t think of it before.”

“What?” Constance stood, drawing three sets of eyes. “Where is he?”

Aramis didn’t answer her; instead he put his hat on his head and marched toward the door.

“Athos?” Constance implored.

“Come with us,” Athos ordered her, moving around his desk and plucking his hat from the nail that held it against the wall. “He will be in need of friends.”

Before Constance could ask again, Porthos collected her by an arm and escorted her from the room and down the stairs. The daylight had grown long in the time they’d been in Athos’ office, listening to his story. Shadows stretched across the garrison courtyard as the four headed from the barracks and through the stone archway toward the edge of Paris.

The men were silent; Constance wondered at the fact that they’d elected to walk rather than ride. It seemed as though they were all preparing for something, but she wasn’t sure what. Porthos didn’t release her arm and the loose grip of his hand felt less like support and more like a need for connection and reassurance. She stretched her legs to keep up with their longer strides, not breaking the heavy quiet that surrounded them with questions, though so many were filling her she was fairly choking on them.

It’s not until they turn down one particular street that she realized where they were headed: the Musketeer cemetery.

“Oh,” she breathed, purposefully slowing.

Aramis and Athos continue forward, but Porthos was tugged back by her slower gait. He turned to look at her, concerned.

“Go,” she encouraged, her hand once more at her belly, her heart pounding. “He needs you. _Go_.”

“’e needs you, too,” Porthos turned to face her fully, his other hand at her opposite elbow, his dark eyes heavy on hers. “’e’ll need you most of all.”

Constance shook her head. “Later,” she said, giving him a tremulous smile. “This…this isn’t about me. This is about…about you. About being a soldier and a brother. Not a husband. He’ll need me later. Right now,” she pushed gently against his chest, “he needs _you_.”

Porthos studied her for a moment, his eyes softening. “You are an amazing woman, Constance d’Artagnan. If I could pick anyone to take care of my friend, it would be you.”

Constance’s lips tipped up in a smile, and she closed her eyes as Porthos pressed a soft kiss on the crown of her head. She held still as he turned to catch up with the others, then walked slowly behind to watch. And wait.

Athos and Aramis were standing at the edge of the cemetery, waiting for Porthos before entering. Constance positioned herself at the low wall that surrounded the space and sat down, her trembling hands braced on the stone. Just down from her, she could see Minister Treville leaning against a tree, his sharp eyes keeping watch over the kneeling figure at the center of the field. He lifted his chin when he saw the three men standing just beyond the cemetery edge and Constance felt a shimmer slip through her as the older man nodded to Athos.

The men slowly approached d’Artagnan; Constance could see now that he was moving away loose dirt to plant a white cross. The cross itself was rough-hewn, as if it had been constructed hastily or without skill. As she scanned the area around d’Artagnan’s bent back, she saw four others like it stretching from her husband to the last grave.

_Mathieu, DuFour, Magliore, George, and Bastien_ , she realized, thinking of the stories told to her over the last few days. All fallen Musketeers in heart if not in name. There wouldn’t be one for Bauer, now that d’Artagnan knew the truth. But she knew he still mourned the loss of his friend in his heart, as the man was no longer part of his life.

As they approached, Athos and Aramis removed their hats, holding them at their sides in respect for this sacred place. d’Artagnan continued to position the cross, making no indication that he was aware of an audience. Constance clutched the stones at her sides, needing the grounding, needing to be reminded that she was part of this, even as she held herself separate.

Finally, satisfied with the job he’d done, d’Artagnan pushed to his feet, moving stiffly as though he’d been in that same position for hours. He took his time brushing the dirt from his breeches before turning to face his friends. Constance winced at the paleness of his face, the sorrow in the lines she saw drawing his mouth low, tilting his eyes as if they were weighted by unshed tears.

“Bastien woulda made a fine Musketeer,” Porthos spoke up, nodding at the last cross.

d’Artagnan inspected the palm of one hand. “He was headstrong,” he said, his voice sounding like crushed glass, sending a spike through Constance’s heart. “Didn’t listen to anyone.”

“Sounds like someone else we know,” Athos replied, a smile coloring his tone.

They were quiet for a beat, then d’Artagnan looked up, his dark eyes fathomless, taking in his three friends in one glance. “Out of all of them,” he gestured behind him at the crosses, “all we lost…that one was on me.”

“d’Artagnan—“

“No, Athos.” He shook his head, cutting off Athos’ protest. He looked down at his hand once more. “I should have…done something more. Something…different.”

“All leaders feel the same, d’Artagnan,” Athos replied, his voice low and solemn, the weight of it keeping d’Artagnan from protesting further.

Constance darted her eyes to where Treville stood listening, hands folded in front of him, head down as if in agreement.

“There isn’t one man lost that we don’t feel, we don’t question what we could have done, how we could have prevented it,” Athos continued.

“How do you…,” d’Artagnan swallowed painfully, looking up and away as he fought back the emotion threatening to consume him. “How do you carry on? How do you…make the dreams stop?”

Athos bowed his head, but Aramis stepped forward. “You look to your brothers,” he replied, his honeyed voice like a balm against the painful edges of the afternoon. “You draw them close and you remember…you remember _every day_ that they have your back. They protect you.”

Constance felt a tear slip down her cheek as d’Artagnan’s chin trembled, his chest heaving slightly as he kept his pain at bay.

“You did that,” Porthos said then, drawing d’Artagnan’s dark eyes. “You did the most important thing: at the end, you were ‘is brother. You never left ‘im.”

“But, I did—“

“No,” Athos shook his head, moving to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Porthos. “You never let him go. You stayed with him, d’Artagnan.”

Constance saw d’Artagnan’s breath hitch as his eyes darted from Porthos to Aramis. From her position, she could now see all their faces and found herself lifting a fist against her heart at the naked emotion present. It was as if no one else were around, the fact that they were surrounded by their fallen brothers a perfect backdrop to erasing all walls, all protective masks, and allowing themselves to be true with each other for just this one moment.

Porthos looked across to Aramis as he spoke to d’Artagnan, picking up where Athos left off. “In ‘is ‘eart, Bastien was always your brother.” He put a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “‘e might’ve been separated by time or circumstance, but you were never far from ‘is mind.”

Aramis brought his chin up, pressing his lips together at Porthos’ words, his eyes showing he heard every one.

“When it mattered,” Porthos continued, “when it _really_ mattered, ‘e was there. Fighting by your side. Willing to die for something ‘e believed in.”

Aramis nodded his thanks at Porthos, his eyes shining. He put a hand on d’Artagnan’s other shoulder in support of Porthos’ words. d’Artagnan flinched at the touch, and for one wild moment, Constance thought he might run.

But then Athos stepped forward—close enough d’Artagnan had to look at him and not the grave markers around them.

“I am proud to be your Captain,” Athos began, glancing quickly at Aramis, “and friend. This war did nothing to change that.”

Constance looked across quickly at Treville and saw him staring at the four men. He knew what he’d asked of them. He knew he was simply exchanging one war for another. She could see it on his face: guilt battling acceptance. He needed these men to fight for Paris as only they could: with integrity and determination, watching out for each other and bringing each other home.

One way or another.

“I realize now that there are things worse than war,” d’Artagnan said quietly, his voice a low hum against the darkening day. “Betrayal. Cowardice. Greed. Disloyalty. All the things we came home to.”

Athos reached for d’Artagnan and gripped the back of the younger man’s neck. Now, through d’Artagnan, all four men were all connected. Constance felt her heart tremble at that realization, knowing it was true on multiple levels. She felt the weight of that responsibility settle on her shoulders like a mantel.

“It is our duty, then,” Athos said to d’Artagnan, his voice low enough Constance had to strain to hear it, “to fight back. To remember, and to remind.”

Porthos nodded as Athos continued.

“We survived this war, when so many others didn’t, for a _reason_.”

d’Artagnan nodded, and to Constance’s surprise, lifted his arms to clasp the shoulders of the two men standing next to him. Constance felt another tear follow the track of the first down her cheek as she observed the four men standing in a circle, connected and, finally, united.

“All for one,” Aramis began.

“One for all,” Porthos finished.

They stood close for several moment longer, until Constance felt her legs beginning to grow numb from the rock wall and Treville stepped back into the shadow of the trees, his presence no longer needed to ensure the safety of his men. She waited until they began to talk to each other in normal tones, the crisis of emotion having passed, then stood and began to slowly walk alone back to the garrison.

They had a fight on their hands, there was no mistaking that. Feron had his sights on something bigger than Governor and with Marcheaux poised to do his will, the Musketeers would have their work cut out for them. But after what they’d survived, and what they’d sacrificed for each other, Constance found herself daring to believe they could win.

The scars they brought home with them only served to make them stronger, more determined. A strange and wonderful feeling made its way into her heart as she crossed under the stone arch of the garrison’s entry way: _hope_.

She went about the remainder of the day, watching as Athos and d’Artagnan rounded up the cadets, breaking them into groups and reorganizing their training. She stood in the doorway of her quarters— _their_ quarters, she reminded herself once more—watching as Aramis slouched lazily against a post, eating his dinner from a bowl while Porthos sat on the table, his booted feet on the bench seat, both adding commentary to d’Artagnan’s training of a cadet.

She smiled, realizing what Athos was doing as he made his way up the stairs to his office, casually waving toward d’Artagnan to keep up the training efforts. Putting d’Artagnan in charge of the cadets gave him something to anchor to, just as Aramis had mentioned. It gave him a specific purpose to focus on when the night drew close and the memories were too thick to avoid.

As the last rays of the day’s light retreated from the courtyard and Aramis and Porthos noisily made their way to a tavern close by, Constance retreated into the bedroom, waiting for her husband to return. When d’Artagnan stepped into the doorway, he stumbled to a halt seeing her on the bed, hair spilling around her shoulders, white nightgown slipping sideways to bare one arm.

He shut and latched the door behind him and silently began to remove his clothes, the clatter of his harquebus, sword, and dagger making her smirk. There was something incredibly attractive about the sound of weapons hitting her floor as the soldier bearing them made way for something more important.

Later, she lay against him, head on his shoulder, nothing between them but air. He was quiet, eyes on the dancing shadows on their ceiling tossed there from the candlelight. She began to trace the scars that told the new story of this man she’d married.

The knotted one at his shoulder where he’d nearly been killed by a fellow French soldier, the seam across his muscled thigh where he had fought through fire to save a brother, the crescent around his eye where he was carried through Hell, and finally the long line across his ribs where he’d lost the most.

Individually, they told stories of bravery and sacrifice. Together, they told the story of a brotherhood.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan said quietly. “They’re not very pretty to look at.”

“Hush,” Constance moved her wandering finger to his lips. “That’s not true at all.”

“I should have told you….”

“Perhaps,” Constance said, resting her hand against the side of his face, relishing the feeling of him pressing his cheek into her palm for comfort. “But I understand now why you didn’t.”

“I wish you didn’t have to see them.”

Lifting up to her elbow, Constance turned his head so that he faced her. She looked directly at his eyes, making sure he heard her.

“I think your scars are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” she told him honestly. “Because of them, I get to keep you. And I plan on hanging on tight. No matter what.”

d’Artagnan pulled her head down and kissed her forehead, then trailed his lips along her cheekbone until he finally found her mouth. She sank into the kiss, breathing him in, grateful that in the next battle he fought, she would be by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** Thank you for reading. I truly hope you enjoyed, and I would love to hear from you.


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